3   1822  01101   8470 


LIBRARY 

UNIVERSITY  OF 
CALIFORNIA 

SAN  DIEGO 


3   1822  01101    8470 


•  US" 
1103 


THE    LION   AND 
THE   UNICORN 


fc 


Instead  .  .  .  buried  her  face  in  its  folds. 


THE  LION  AND 
THE  UNICORN 


BY 

RICHARD  HARDING  DAVIS 


ILLUSTRATED  BY 

Howard  Chandler  Christy 


CHARLES   SCRIBNER'S    SONS 
NEW  YORK:::::::::::::::::  1908 


COPYRIGHT,  1898,  1899,  1903,  BV 
CHARLES  SCRIBNER'S  SONS 


IN   MEMORY  OF 

MANY   HOT   DAYS   AND   SOME    HOT   CORNERS 
THIS   BOOK   IS   DEDICATED   TO 

LIEUT.-COL.  ARTHUR  H.  LEE,  R.A. 

BRITISH   MILITARY   ATTACHE   WITH   THE 
UNITED   STATES   ARMY 


CONTENTS 

*£*  In  this  volume  are  included  "  Cinderella,**  "  Miss  Delamar's  Under- 
ttudy,"  "The  Editor's  Story,"  and  "An  Assisted  Emigrant,**  heretofore 
published  in  the  volume  entitled  "  Cinderella  and  Other  Stories.** 

PACK 

THE  LION  AND  THE  UNICORN i 

CINDERELLA *^3 

Miss  DELAMAR'S  UNDERSTUDY •     95 

ON  THE  FEVER  SHIP 131 

THE  MAN  WITH  ONE  TALENT 159 

THE  VAGRANT 199 

THE  LAST  RIDE  TOGETHER 241 

THE  EDITOR'S  STORY 253 

AN  ASSISTED  EMIGRANT  .281 


ILLUSTRATIONS 


Instead  .   .   .   buried  her  face  in  its  folds  .      .      .  Frontispiece 


FACING 
PAGE 


Consumed  tea  and  thin  slices  ot  bread       .      .     .      .      .      12 

.  - 

Saw  her  staring  down  at  the  tumult 54 

"Listen,"   he  said 148 

"  You    are    like    a    ring  of   gamblers  around    a    gaming 

table" 192 

The  young  man  stood  staring  up  at  the  white  figure  or 

the  girl 236 


THE  LION  AND  THE 
UNICORN 


PRENTISS  had  a  long  lease  on  the  house, 
and  because  it  stood  in  Jermyn  Street  the 
upper  floors  were,  as  a  matter  of  course,  turned 
into  lodgings  for  single  gentlemen;  and  because 
Prentiss  was  a  Florist  to  the  Queen,  he  placed  a 
lion  and  unicorn  over  his  flower-shop,  just  in  front 
of  the  middle  window  on  the  first  floor.  By  stretch 
ing  a  little,  each  of  them  could  see  into  the  win 
dow  just  beyond  him,  and  could  hear  all  that  was 
said  inside ;  and  such  things  as  they  saw  and  heard 
during  the  reign  of  Captain  Carrington,  who 
moved  in  at  the  same  time  they  did!  By  day  the 
table  in  the  centre  of  the  room  was  covered  with 
maps,  and  the  Captain  sat  with  a  box  of  pins,  with 
different-colored  flags  wrapped  around  them,  and 
amused  himself  by  sticking  them  in  the  maps  and 
measuring  the  spaces  in  between,  swearing  mean 
while  to  himself.  It  was  a  selfish  amusement,  but 
it  appeared  to  be  the  Captain's  only  intellectual 
pursuit,  for  at  night  the  maps  were  rolled  up,  and 
a  green  cloth  was  spread  across  the  table,  and  there 
was  much  company  and  popping  of  soda-bottles, 

3 


The  Lion  and  the  Unicorn 

and  little  heaps  of  gold  and  silver  were  moved  this 
way  and  that  across  the  cloth.  The  smoke  drifted 
Dut  of  the  open  windows,  and  the  laughter  of  the 
Captain's  guests  rang  out  loudly  in  the  empty 
street,  so  that  the  policeman  halted  and  raised  his 
eyes  reprovingly  to  the  lighted  windows,  and  cab 
men  drew  up  beneath  them  and  lay  in  wait,  dozing 
on  their  folded  arms,  for  the  Captain's  guests  to 
depart.  The  Lion  and  the  Unicorn  were  rather 
ashamed  of  the  scandal  of  it,  and  they  were  glad 
when,  one  day,  the  Captain  went  away  with  his  tin 
boxes  and  gun-cases  piled  high  on  a  four-wheeler. 
Prentiss  stood  on  the  sidewalk  and  said,  "I 
wish  you  good  luck,  sir."  And  the  Captain  said, 
"I'm  coming  back  a  Major,  Prentiss."  But  he 
never  came  back.  And  one  day — the  Lion  remem 
bered  the  day  very  well,  for  on  that  same  day  the 
newsboys  ran  up  and  down  Jermyn  Street  shouting 
out  the  news  of  "a  'orrible  disaster"  to  the  British 
arms.  It  was  then  that  a  young  lady  came  to  the 
door  in  a  hansom,  and  Prentiss  went  out  to  meet 
her  and  led  her  upstairs.  They  heard  him  un 
lock  the  Captain's  door  and  say,  "This  is  his 
room,  miss,"  and  after  he  had  gone  they  watched 
her  standing  quite  still  by  the  centre-table.  She 
stood  there  for  a  very  long  time  looking  slowly 
about  her,  and  then  she  took  a  photograph  of  the 
Captain  from  the  frame  on  the  mantel  and  slipped 

4 


The  Lion  and  the  Unicorn 

it  into  her  pocket,  and  when  she  went  out  again 
her  veil  was  down,  and  she  was  crying.  She  must 
have  given  Prentiss  as  much  as  a  sovereign,  for 
he  called  her  "Your  ladyship,"  which  he  never  did 
under  a  sovereign. 

And  she  drove  off,  and  they  never  saw  her  again 
either,  nor  could  they  hear  the  address  she  gave 
the  cabman.  But  it  was  somewhere  up  St.  John's 
Wood  way. 

After  that  the  rooms  were  empty  for  some 
months,  and  the  Lion  and  the  Unicorn  were  forced 
to  amuse  themselves  with  the  beautiful  ladies  and 
smart-looking  men  who  came  to  Prentiss  to  buy 
flowers  and  "buttonholes,"  and  the  little  round 
baskets  of  strawberries,  and  even  the  peaches  at 
three  shillings  each,  which  looked  so  tempting  as 
they  lay  in  the  window,  wrapped  up  in  cotton-wool, 
like  jewels  of  great  price. 

Then  Philip  Carroll,  the  American  gentleman, 
came,  and  they  heard  Prentiss  telling  him  that 
those  rooms  had  always  let  for  five  guineas  a  week, 
which  they  knew  was  not  true;  but  they  also  knew 
that  in  the  economy  of  nations  there  must  always 
be  a  higher  price  for  the  rich  American,  or  else 
why  was  he  given  that  strange  accent,  except  to 
betray  him  into  the  hands  of  the  London  shop 
keeper,  and  the  London  cabby? 

The  American  walked  to  the  window  toward 
5 


The  Lion  and  the  Unicorn 

the  west,  which  was  the  window  nearest  the  Lion, 
and  looked  out  into  the  graveyard  of  St.  James's 
Church,  that  stretched  between  their  street  and 
Piccadilly. 

"You're  lucky  in  having  a  bit  of  green  to  look 
out  on,"  he  said  to  Prentiss.  "I'll  take  these  rooms 
— at  five  guineas.  That's  more  than  they're  worth, 
you  know,  but  as  I  know  it,  too,  your  conscience 
needn't  trouble  you." 

Then  his  eyes  fell  on  the  Lion,  and  he  nodded 
to  him  gravely.  "How  do  you  do?"  he  said. 
"I'm  coming  to  live  with  you  for  a  little  time. 
I  have  read  about  you  and  your  friends  over 
there.  It  is  a  hazard  of  new  fortunes  with  me, 
your  Majesty,  so  be  kind  to  me,  and  if  I  win,  I 
will  put  a  new  coat  of  paint  on  your  shield  and 
gild  you  all  over  again." 

Prentiss  smiled  obsequiously  at  the  American's 
pleasantry,  but  the  new  lodger  only  stared  at  him. 

"He  seemed  a  social  gentleman,"  said  the  Uni 
corn,  that  night,  when  the  Lion  and  he  were  talk 
ing  it  over.  "Now  the  Captain,  the  whole  time 
he  was  here,  never  gave  us  so  much  as  a  look. 
This  one  says  he  has  read  of  us." 

"And  why  not?"  growled  the  Lion.  "I  hope 
Prentiss  heard  what  he  said  of  our  needing  a  new 
layer  of  gilt.  It's  disgraceful.  You  can  see  that 
Lion  over  Scarlett's,  the  butcher,  as  far  as  Regent 

6 


The  Lion  and  the  Unicorn 

Street,  and  Scarlett  is  only  one  of  Salisbury's  crea 
tions.  He  received  his  Letters-Patent  only  two 
years  back.  We  date  from  Palmerston." 

The  lodger  came  up  the  street  just  at  that  mo 
ment,  and  stopped  and  looked  up  at  the  Lion  and 
the  Unicorn  from  the  sidewalk,  before  he  opened 
the  door  with  his  night-key.  They  heard  him  en 
ter  the  room  and  feel  on  the  mantel  for  his  pipe, 
and  a  moment  later  he  appeared  at  the  Lion's 
window  and  leaned  on  the  sill,  looking  down  into 
the  street  below  and  blowing  whiffs  of  smoke  up 
into  the  warm  night-air. 

It  was  a  night  in  June,  and  the  pavements  were 
dry  under  foot  and  the  streets  were  filled  with 
well-dressed  people,  going  home  from  the  play, 
and  with  groups  of  men  in  black  and  white,  mak 
ing  their  way  to  supper  at  the  clubs.  Hansoms 
of  inky-black,  with  shining  lamps  inside  and  out, 
dashed  noiselessly  past  on  mysterious  errands, 
chasing  close  on  each  other's  heels  on  a  mad  race, 
each  to  its  separate  goal.  From  the  cross  streets 
rose  the  noises  of  early  night,  the  rumble  of  the 
'buses,  the  creaking  of  their  brakes  as  they  un 
locked,  the  cries  of  the  "extras,"  and  the  merging 
of  thousands  of  human  voices  in  a  dull  murmur. 
The  great  world  of  London  was  closing  its  shut 
ters  for  the  night  and  putting  out  the  lights;  and 
the  new  lodger  from  across  the  sea  listened  to  it 

7 


The  Lion  and  the  Unicorn 

with  his  heart  beating  quickly,  and  laughed  to  stifle 
the  touch  of  fear  and  homesickness  that  rose  in 
him. 

"I  have  seen  a  great  play  to-night,"  he  said  to 
the  Lion,  "nobly  played  by  great  players.  What 
will  they  care  for  my  poor  wares?  I  see  that  I 
have  been  over-bold.  But  we  cannot  go  back  now 
— not  yet." 

He  knocked  the  ashes  out  of  his  pipe,  and 
nodded  "good-night"  to  the  great  world  beyond 
his  window.  "What  fortunes  lie  with  ye,  ye  lights 
of  London  town?"  he  quoted,  smiling.  And  they 
heard  him  close  the  door  of  his  bedroom,  and 
lock  it  for  the  night. 

The  next  morning  he  bought  many  geraniums 
from  Prentiss  and  placed  them  along  the  broad 
cornice  that  stretched  across  the  front  of  the  house 
over  the  shop-window.  The  flowers  made  a  band 
of  scarlet  on  either  side  of  the  Lion  as  brilliant 
as  a  Tommy's  jacket. 

"I  am  trying  to  propitiate  the  British  Lion  by 
placing  flowers  before  his  altar,"  the  American 
said  that  morning  to  a  visitor. 

"The  British  public,  you  mean,"  said  the  vis 
itor;  "they  are  each  likely  to  tear  you  to  pieces." 

"Yes,  I  have  heard  that  the  pit  on  the  first 
night  of  a  bad  play  is  something  awful,"  hazarded 
the  American. 

8 


The  Lion  and  the  Unicorn 

"Wait  and  see,"  said  the  visitor. 

"Thank  you,"  said  the  American,  meekly. 

Everyone  who  came  to  the  first  floor  front 
talked  about  a  play.  It  seemed  to  be  something 
of  great  moment  to  the  American.  It  was  only 
a  bundle  of  leaves  printed  in  red  and  black  inks 
and  bound  in  brown  paper  covers.  There  were 
two  of  them,  and  the  American  called  them  by 
different  names:  one  was  his  comedy  and  one  was 
his  tragedy. 

"They  are  both  likely  to  be  tragedies,"  the 
Lion  heard  one  of  the  visitors  say  to  another,  as 
they  drove  away  together.  "Our  young  friend 
takes  it  too  seriously." 

The  American  spent  most  of  his  time  by  his 
desk  at  the  window  writing  on  little  blue  pads  and 
tearing  up  what  he  wrote,  or  in  reading  over  one 
of  the  plays  to  himself  in  a  loud  voice.  In  time 
the  number  of  his  visitors  increased,  and  to  some 
of  these  he  would  read  his  play;  and  after  they 
had  left  him  he  was  either  depressed  and  silent  or 
excited  and  jubilant.  The  Lion  could  always  tell 
when  he  was  happy  because  then  he  would  go  to 
the  side  table  and  pour  himself  out  a  drink  and 
say,  "Here's  to  me,"  but  when  he  was  depressed 
he  would  stand  holding  the  glass  in  his  hand,  and 
finally  pour  the  liquor  back  into  the  bottle  again 
and  say,  "What's  the  use  of  that?" 

9 


The  Lion  and  the  Unicorn 

After  he  had  been  in  London  a  month  he  wrote 
less  and  was  more  frequently  abroad,  sallying  forth 
in  beautiful  raiment,  and  coming  home  by  daylight. 

And  he  gave  suppers  too,  but  they  were  less 
noisy  than  the  Captain's  had  been,  and  the  women 
who  came  to  them  were  much  more  beautiful,  and 
their  voices  when  they  spoke  were  sweet  and  low. 
Sometimes  one  of  the  women  sang,  and  the  men 
sat  in  silence  while  the  people  in  the  street  below 
stopped  to  listen,  and  would  say,  "Why,  that  is 
So-and-So  singing,"  and  the  Lion  and  the  Unicorn 
wondered  how  they  could  know  who  it  was  when 
they  could  not  see  her. 

The  lodger's  visitors  came  to  see  him  at  all 
hours.  They  seemed  to  regard  his  rooms  as  a 
club,  where  they  could  always  come  for  a  bite  to 
eat  or  to  write  notes;  and  others  treated  it  like  a 
lawyer's  office  and  asked  advice  on  all  manner  of 
strange  subjects.  Sometimes  the  visitor  wanted  to 
know  whether  the  American  thought  she  ought  to 
take  £10  a  week  and  go  on  tour,  or  stay  in  town 
and  try  to  live  on  £8 ;  or  whether  she  should  paint 
landscapes  that  would  not  sell,  or  race-horses  that 
would;  or  whether  Reggie  really  loved  her  and 
whether  she  really  loved  Reggie;  or  whether  the 
new  part  in  the  piece  at  the  Court  was  better  than 
the  old  part  at  Terry's,  and  wasn't  she  getting  too 
old  to  play  "ingenues"  anyway. 

10 


The  Lion  and  the  Unicorn 

The  lodger  seemed  to  be  a  general  adviser,  and 
smoked  and  listened  with  grave  consideration,  and 
the  Unicorn  thought  his  judgment  was  most  sym 
pathetic  and  sensible. 

Of  all  the  beautiful  ladies  who  came  to  call  on 
the  lodger  the  one  the  Unicorn  liked  the  best  was 
the  one  who  wanted  to  know  whether  she  loved 
Reggie  and  whether  Reggie  loved  her.  She  dis 
cussed  this  so  interestingly  while  she  consumed  tea 
and  thin  slices  of  bread  that  the  Unicorn  almost 
lost  his  balance  in  leaning  forward  to  listen.  Her 
name  was  Marion  Cavendish,  and  it  was  written 
over  many  photographs  which  stood  in  silver 
frames  in  the  lodger's  rooms.  She  used  to  make 
the  tea  herself,  while  the  lodger  sat  and  smoked; 
and  she  had  a  fascinating  way  of  doubling  the  thin 
slices  of  bread  into  long  strips  and  nibbling  at 
them  like  a  mouse  at  a  piece  of  cheese.  She  had 
wonderful  little  teeth  and  Cupid's-bow  lips,  and 
she  had  a  fashion  of  lifting  her  veil  only  high 
enough  for  one  to  see  the  two  Cupid-bow  lips. 
When  she  did  that  the  American  used  to  laugh,  at 
nothing  apparently,  and  say,  "Oh,  I  guess  Reggie 
loves  you  well  enough." 

"But  do  I  love  Reggie?"  she  would  ask,  sadly, 
with  her  teacup  held  poised  in  air. 

"I  am  sure  I  hope  not,"  the  lodger  would  re 
ply,  and  she  would  put  down  the  veil  quickly,  as 

ii 


The  Lion  and  the  Unicorn 

one  would  drop  a  curtain  over  a  beautiful  picture, 
and  rise  with  great  dignity  and  say,  "If  you  talk 
like  that  I  shall  not  come  again." 

She  was  sure  that  if  she  could  only  get  some 
work  to  do  her  head  would  be  filled  with  more  im 
portant  matters  than  whether  Reggie  loved  her  or 
not. 

"But  the  managers  seem  inclined  to  cut  their 
cavendish  very  fine  just  at  present,"  she  said.  "If 
I  don't  get  a  part  soon,"  she  announced,  "I  shall 
ask  Mitchell  to  put  me  down  on  the  list  for  reci 
tations  at  evening  parties." 

"That  seems  a  desperate  revenge,"  said  the 
American;  "and  besides,  I  don't  want  you  to  get 
a  part,  because  someone  might  be  idiotic  enough 
to  take  my  comedy,  and  if  he  should,  you  must 
play  Nancy" 

"I  would  not  ask  for  any  salary  if  I  could  play 
Nancy"  Miss  Cavendish  answered. 

They  spoke  of  a  great  many  things,  but  their 
talk  always  ended  by  her  saying  that  there  must 
be  someone  with  sufficient  sense  to  see  that  his 
play  was  a  great  play,  and  by  his  saying  that  none 
but  she  must  play  Nancy. 

The  Lion  preferred  the  tall  girl  with  masses 
and  folds  of  brown  hair,  who  came  from  America 
to  paint  miniatures  of  the  British  aristocracy.  Her 
name  was  Helen  Cabot,  and  he  liked  her  because 

12 


Consumed  tea  and  tUn  dices  of  bread 


The  Lion  and  the  Unicorn 

she  was  so  brave  and  fearless,  and  so  determined 
to  be  independent  of  everyone,  even  of  the 
lodger  —  especially  of  the  lodger,  who,  it  ap 
peared,  had  known  her  very  well  at  home.  The 
lodger,  they  gathered,  did  not  wish  her  to  be  in 
dependent  of  him,  and  the  two  Americans  had 
many  arguments  and  disputes  about  it,  but  she  al 
ways  said,  "It  does  no  good,  Philip;  it  only  hurts 
us  both  when  you  talk  so.  I  care  for  nothing,  and 
for  no  one  but  my  art,  and,  poor  as  it  is,  it  means 
everything  to  me,  and  you  do  not,  and,  of  course, 
the  man  I  am  to  marry,  must."  Then  Carroll  would 
talk,  walking  up  and  down,  and  looking  very  fierce 
and  determined,  and  telling  her  how  he  loved  her 
in  such  a  way  that  it  made  her  look  even  more 
proud  and  beautiful.  And  she  would  say  more 
gently,  "It  is  very  fine  to  think  that  anyone  can 
care  for  me  like  that,  and  very  helpful.  But  unless 
I  cared  in  the  same  way  it  would  be  wicked  of  me 
to  marry  you,  and  besides — "  She  would  add  very 
quickly  to  prevent  his  speaking  again — "I  don't 
want  to  marry  you  or  anybody,  and  I  never  shall. 
I  want  to  be  free  and  to  succeed  in  my  work,  just 
as  you  want  to  succeed  in  your  work.  So  please 
never  speak  of  this  again."  When  she  went  away 
the  lodger  used  to  sit  smoking  in  the  big  arm-chair 
and  beat  the  arms  with  his  hands,  and  he  would 
pace  up  and  down  the  room,  while  his  work  would 

13 


The  Lion  and  the  Unicorn 

lie    untouched    and    his    engagements    pass    for 
gotten. 

Summer  came  and  London  was  deserted,  dull, 
and  dusty,  but  the  lodger  stayed  on  in  Jermyn 
Street.  Helen  Cabot  had  departed  on  a  round  of 
visits  to  country-houses  in  Scotland,  where,  as  she 
wrote  him,  she  was  painting  miniatures  of  her 
hosts  and  studying  the  game  of  golf.  Miss  Cav 
endish  divided  her  days  between  the  river  and  one 
of  the  West  End  theatres.  She  was  playing  a 
small  part  in  a  farce-comedy. 

One  day  she  came  up  from  Cookham  earlier 
than  usual,  looking  very  beautiful  in  a  white  boat 
ing-frock  and  a  straw  hat  with  a  Leander  ribbon. 
Her  hands  and  arms  were  hard  with  dragging  a 
punting-pole,  and  she  was  sunburnt  and  happy,  and 
hungry  for  tea. 

"Why  don't  you  come  down  to  Cookham  and 
get  out  of  this  heat?"  Miss  Cavendish  asked. 
"You  need  it;  you  look  ill." 

"I'd  like  to,  but  I  can't,"  said  Carroll.  "The 
fact  is,  I  paid  in  advance  for  these  rooms,  and  if 
I  lived  anywhere  else  I'd  be  losing  five  guineas 
a  week  on  them." 

Miss  Cavendish  regarded  him  severely.  She 
had  never  quite  mastered  his  American  humor. 

"But — five  guineas — why,  that's  nothing  to 
you,"  she  said.  Something  in  the  lodger's  face 

made  her  pause.    "You  don't  mean " 

14 


The  Lion  and  the  Unicorn 

"Yes,  I  do,"  said  the  lodger,  smiling.  "You 
see,  I  started  in  to  lay  siege  to  London  without 
sufficient  ammunition.  London  is  a  large  town, 
and  it  didn't  fall  as  quickly  as  I  thought  it  would. 
So  I  am  economizing.  Mr.  Lockhart's  Coffee 
Rooms  and  I  are  no  longer  strangers." 

Miss  Cavendish  put  down  her  cup  of  tea  un- 
tasted  and  leaned  toward  him. 

"Are  you  in  earnest?"  she  asked.  "For  how 
long?" 

"Oh,  for  the  last  month,"  replied  the  lodger; 
"they  are  not  at  all  bad — clean  and  wholesome 
and  all  that." 

"But  the  suppers  you  gave  us,  and  this,"  she 
cried,  suddenly,  waving  her  hands  over  the  pretty 
tea-things,  "and  the  cake  and  muffins?" 

"My  friends,  at  least,"  said  Carroll,  "need  not 
go  to  Lockhart's." 

"And  the  Savoy?"  asked  Miss  Cavendish, 
mournfully  shaking  her  head. 

"A  dream  of  the  past,"  said  Carroll,  waving 
his  pipe  through  the  smoke.  "Gatti's?  Yes,  on 
special  occasions;  but  for  necessity  the  Chancel 
lor's,  where  one  gets  a  piece  of  the  prime  roast 
beef  of  Old  England,  from  Chicago,  and  pota 
toes  for  ninepence — a  pot  of  bitter  twopence-half 
penny,  and  a  penny  for  the  waiter.  It's  most 
amusing  on  the  whole.  I  am  learning  a  little  about 

15 


The  Lion  and  the  Unicorn 

London,  and  some  things  about  myself.    They  are 
both  most  interesting  subjects." 

"Well,  I  don't  like  it,"  Miss  Cavendish  de 
clared,  helplessly.  "When  I  think  of  those  sup 
pers  and  the  flowers,  I  feel — I  feel  like  a  robber." 

"Don't,"  begged  Carroll.  "I  am  really  the 
most  happy  of  men — that  is,  as  the  chap  says  in 
the  play,  I  would  be  if  I  wasn't  so  damned  miser 
able.  But  I  owe  no  man  a  penny  and  I  have  as 
sets — I  have  £80  to  last  me  through  the  winter 
and  two  marvellous  plays ;  and  I  love,  next  to  your 
self,  the  most  wonderful  woman  God  ever  made. 
That's  enough." 

"But  I  thought  you  made  such  a  lot  of  money 
by  writing?"  asked  Miss  Cavendish. 

"I  do — that  is,  I  could,"  answered  Carroll,  "if 
I  wrote  the  things  that  sell;  but  I  keep  on  writing 
plays  that  won't." 

"And  such  plays!"  exclaimed  Marion,  warmly; 
"and  to  think  that  they  are  going  begging."  She 
continued,  indignantly,  "I  can't  imagine  what  the 
managers  do  want." 

"I  know  what  they  don't  want,"  said  the  Amer 
ican.  Miss  Cavendish  drummed  impatiently  on 
the  tea-tray. 

"I  wish  you  wouldn't  be  so  abject  about  it,n 
she  said.  "If  I  were  a  man  I'd  make  them  take 
those  plays." 

16 


The  Lion  and  the  Unicorn 

"How?"  asked  the  American;  "with  a  gun?" 

"Well,  I'd  keep  at  it  until  they  read  them," 
declared  Marion.  "I'd  sit  on  their  front  steps  all 
night  and  I'd  follow  them  in  cabs,  and  I'd  lie  in 
wait  for  them  at  the  stage-door.  I'd  just  make 
them  take  them." 

Carroll  sighed  and  stared  at  the  ceiling.  "I 
guess  I'll  give  up  and  go  home,"  he  said. 

"Oh,  yes,  do,  run  away  before  you  are  beaten," 
said  Miss  Cavendish,  scornfully.  "Why,  you 
can't  go  now.  Everybody  will  be  back  in  town 
soon,  and  there  are  a  lot  of  new  plays  coming  on, 
and  some  of  them  are  sure  to  be  failures,  and  that's 
our  chance.  You  rush  in  with  your  piece,  and 
somebody  may  take  it  sooner  than  close  the  thea 
tre." 

"I'm  thinking  of  closing  the  theatre  myself," 
said  Carroll.  "What's  the  use  of  my  hanging 
on  here?"  he  exclaimed.  "It  distresses  Helen  to 
know  I  am  in  London,  feeling  about  her  as  I  do 
— and  the  Lord  only  knows  how  it  distresses  me. 
And,  maybe,  if  I  went  away,"  he  said,  consciously, 
"she  might  miss  me.  She  might  see  the  differ 


ence." 


Miss  Cavendish  held  herself  erect  and  pressed 
her  lips  together  with  a  severe  smile.  "If  Helen 
Cabot  doesn't  see  the  difference  between  you  and 
the  other  men  she  knows  now,"  she  said,  "I  doubt 

17 


The  Lion  and  the  Unicorn 

if  she  ever  will.  Besides — "  she  continued,  and 
then  hesitated. 

"Well,  go  on,"  urged  Carroll. 

"Well,  I  was  only  going  to  say,"  she  explained, 
"that  leaving  the  girl  alone  never  did  the  man 
any  good  unless  he  left  her  alone  willingly.  If 
she's  sure  he  still  cares,  it's  just  the  same  to  her 
where  he  is.  He  might  as  well  stay  on  in  London 
as  go  to  South  Africa.  It  won't  help  him  any. 
The  difference  comes  when  she  finds  he  has  stopped 
caring.  Why,  look  at  Reggie.  He  tried  that.  He 
went  away  for  ever  so  long,  but  he  kept  writing 
me  from  wherever  he  went,  so  that  he  was  per 
fectly  miserable — and  I  went  on  enjoying  myself. 
Then  when  he  came  back,  he  tried  going  about 
with  his  old  friends  again.  He  used  to  come  to 
the  theatre  with  them — oh,  with  such  nice  girls ! — 
but  he  always  stood  in  the  back  of  the  box  and 
yawned  and  scowled — so  I  knew.  And,  anyway, 
he'd  always  spoil  it  all  by  leaving  them  and  waiting 
at  the  stage  entrance  for  me.  But  one  day  he  got 
tired  of  the  way  I  treated  him  and  went  off  on  a 
bicycle-tour  with  Lady  Hacksher's  girls  and  some 
men  from  his  regiment,  and  he  was  gone  three 
weeks,  and  never  sent  me  even  a  line;  and  I  got 
so  scared;  I  couldn't  sleep,  and  I  stood  it  for  three 
days  more,  and  then  I  wired  him  to  come  back  or 
I'd  jump  off  London  Bridge;  and  he  came  back 

18 


The  Lion  and  the  Unicorn 

that  very  night  from  Edinburgh  on  the  express, 
and  I  was  so  glad  to  see  him  that  I  got  confused, 
and  in  the  general  excitement  I  promised  to  marry 
him,  so  that's  how  it  was  with  us." 

"Yes,"  said  the  American,  without  enthusiasm; 
"but  then  I  still  care,  and  Helen  knows  I  care." 

"Doesn't  she  ever  fancy  that  you  might  care 
for  someone  else?  You  have  a  lot  of  friends, 
you  know." 

"Yes,  but  she  knows  they  are  just  that — 
friends,"  said  the  American. 

Miss  Cavendish  stood  up  to  go,  and  arranged 
her  veil  before  the  mirror  above  the  fireplace. 

"I  come  here  very  often  to  tea,"  she  said. 

"It's  very  kind  of  you,"  said  Carroll.  He  was 
at  the  open  window,  looking  down  into  the  street 
for  a  cab. 

"Well,  no  one  knows  I  am  engaged  to  Reg 
gie,"  continued  Miss  Cavendish,  "except  you  and 
Reggie,  and  he  isn't  so  sure.  She  doesn't  know 
it." 

"Well?"  said  Carroll. 

Miss  Cavendish  smiled  a  mischievous  kindly 
smile  at  him  from  the  mirror. 

"Well?"  she  repeated,  mockingly.  Carroll 
stared  at  her  and  laughed.  After  a  pause  he  said : 
"It's  like  a  plot  in  a  comedy.  But  I'm  afraid  I'm 
too  serious  for  play-acting." 

19 


The  Lion  and  the  Unicorn 

"Yes,  it  is  serious,"  said  Miss  Cavendish.  She 
seated  herself  again  and  regarded  the  American 
thoughtfully.  "You  are  too  good  a  man  to  be 
treated  the  way  that  girl  is  treating  you,  and  no 
one  knows  it  better  than  she  does.  She'll  change 
in  time,  but  just  now  she  thinks  she  wants  to  be 
independent.  She's  in  love  with  this  picture-paint 
ing  idea,  and  with  the  people  she  meets.  It's  all 
new  to  her — the  fuss  they  make  over  her  and 
the  titles,  and  the  way  she  is  asked  about.  We 
know  she  can't  paint.  We  know  they  only  give 
her  commissions  because  she's  so  young  and  pretty, 
and  American.  She  amuses  them,  that's  all.  Well, 
that  cannot  last ;  she'll  find  it  out.  She's  too  clever 
a  girl,  and  she  is  too  fine  a  girl  to  be  content  with 
that  long.  Then — then  she'll  come  back  to  you. 
She  feels  now  that  she  has  both  you  and  the  others, 
and  she's  making  you  wait;  so  wait  and  be  cheer 
ful.  She's  worth  waiting  for;  she's  young,  that's 
all.  She'll  see  the  difference  in  time.  But,  in  the 
meanwhile,  it  would  hurry  matters  a  bit  if  she 
thought  she  had  to  choose  between  the  new  friends 
and  you." 

"She  could  still  keep  her  friends  and  marry 
me,"  said  Carroll;  "I  have  told  her  that  a  hun 
dred  times.  She  could  still  paint  miniatures  and 
marry  me.  But  she  won't  marry  me." 

"She  won't  marry  you  because  she  knows  she 
20 


The  Lion  and  the  Unicorn 

can  whenever  she  wants  to,"  cried  Marion.  "Can't 
you  see  that?  But  if  she  thought  you  were  going 
to  marry  someone  else  now?" 

"She  would  be  the  first  to  congratulate  me," 
said  Carroll.  He  rose  and  walked  to  the  fireplace, 
where  he  leaned  with  his  arm  on  the  mantel.  There 
was  a  photograph  of  Helen  Cabot  near  his  hand, 
and  he  turned  this  toward  him  and  stood  for  some 
time  staring  at  it.  "My  dear  Marion,"  he  said 
at  last,  "I've  known  Helen  ever  since  she  was  as 
young  as  that.  Every  year  I've  loved  her  more, 
and  found  new  things  in  her  to  care  for;  now  I 
love  her  more  than  any  other  man  ever  loved  any 
other  woman." 

Miss  Cavendish  shook  her  head  sympathet 
ically. 

"Yes,  I  know,"  she  said;  "that's  the  way  Reg 
gie  loves  me,  too." 

Carroll  went  on  as  though  he  had  not  heard 
her. 

"There's  a  bench  in  St.  James's  Park,"  he  said, 
"where  we  used  to  sit  when  she  first  came  here, 
when  she  didn't  know  so  many  people.  We  used 
to  go  there  in  the  morning  and  throw  penny  buns 
to  the  ducks.  That's  been  my  amusement  this  sum 
mer  since  you've  all  been  away — sitting  on  that 
bench,  feeding  penny  buns  to  the  silly  ducks — 
especially  the  black  one,  the  one  she  used  to  like 

21 


The  Lion  and  the  Unicorn 

best.  And  I  make  pilgrimages  to  all  the  other 
places  we  ever  visited  together,  and  try  to  pretend 
she  is  with  me.  And  I  support  the  crossing  sweep 
er  at  Lansdowne  Passage  because  she  once  said 
she  felt  sorry  for  him.  I  do  all  the  other  absurd 
things  that  a  man  in  love  tortures  himself  by  do 
ing.  But  to  what  end?  She  knows  how  I  care, 
and  yet  she  won't  see  why  we  can't  go  on  being 
friends  as  we  once  were.  What's  the  use  of  it 
all?" 

"She  is  young,  I  tell  you,"  repeated  Miss  Cav 
endish,  "and  she's  too  sure  of  you.  You've  told 
her  you  care;  now  try  making  her  think  you  don't 
care." 

Carroll  shook  his  head  impatiently. 

"I  will  not  stoop  to  such  tricks  and  pretence, 
Marion,"  he  cried,  impatiently.  "All  I  have  is 
my  love  for  her;  if  I  have  to  cheat  and  to  trap 
her  into  caring,  the  whole  thing  would  be  de 
graded." 

Miss  Cavendish  shrugged  her  shoulders  and 
walked  to  the  door.  "Such  amateurs!"  she  ex 
claimed,  and  banged  the  door  after  her. 

Carroll  never  quite  knew  how  he  had  come  to 
make  a  confidante  of  Miss  Cavendish.  Helen  and 
he  had  met  her  when  they  first  arrived  in  London, 
and  as  she  had  acted  for  a  season  in  the  United 
States,  she  adopted  the  two  Americans — and  told 

22 


The  Lion  and  the  Unicorn 

Helen  where  to  go  for  boots  and  hats,  and  advised 
Carroll  about  placing  his  plays.  Helen  soon 
made  other  friends,  and  deserted  the  artists  with 
whom  her  work  had  first  thrown  her.  She  seemed 
to  prefer  the  society  of  the  people  who  bought  her 
paintings,  and  who  admired  and  made  much  of  the 
painter.  As  she  was  very  beautiful  and  at  an  age 
when  she  enjoyed  everything  in  life  keenly  and 
eagerly,  to  give  her  pleasure  was  in  itself  a  distinct 
pleasure;  and  the  worldly  tired  people  she  met 
were  considering  their  own  entertainment  quite  as 
much  as  hers  when  they  asked  her  to  their  dinners 
and  dances,  or  to  spend  a  week  with  them  in  the 
country.  In  her  way,  she  was  as  independent  as 
was  Carroll  in  his,  and  as  she  was  not  in  love, 
as  he  was,  her  life  was  not  narrowed  down  to  but 
one  ideal.  But  she  was  not  so  young  as  to  con 
sider  herself  infallible,  and  she  had  one  excellent 
friend  on  whom  she  was  dependent  for  advice  and 
to  whose  directions  she  submitted  implicitly.  This 
was  Lady  Gower,  the  only  person  to  whom  Helen 
had  spoken  of  Carroll  and  of  his  great  feeling  for 
her.  Lady  Gower,  immediately  after  her  mar 
riage,  had  been  a  conspicuous  and  brilliant  figure 
in  that  set  in  London  which  works  eighteen  hours 
a  day  to  keep  itself  amused,  but  after  the  death 
of  her  husband  she  had  disappeared  into  the  coun 
try  as  completely  as  though  she  had  entered  a  con- 

23 


The  Lion  and  the  Unicorn 

vent,  and  after  several  years  had  then  re-entered 
the  world  as  a  professional  philanthropist.  Her 
name  was  now  associated  entirely  with  Women's 
Leagues,  with  committees  that  presented  petitions 
to  Parliament,  and  with  public  meetings,  at  which 
she  spoke  with  marvellous  ease  and  effect.  Her 
old  friends  said  she  had  taken  up  this  new  pose 
as  an  outlet  for  her  nervous  energies,  and  as  an 
effort  to  forget  the  man  who  alone  had  made  life 
serious  to  her.  Others  knew  her  as  an  earnest 
woman,  acting  honestly  for  what  she  thought  was 
right.  Her  success,  all  admitted,  was  due  to  her 
knowledge  of  the  world  and  to  her  sense  of  hu 
mor,  which  taught  her  with  whom  to  use  her 
wealth  and  position,  and  when  to  demand  what 
she  wanted  solely  on  the  ground  that  the  cause 
was  just. 

She  had  taken  more  than  a  fancy  for  Helen, 
and  the  position  of  the  beautiful,  motherless  girl 
had  appealed  to  her  as  one  filled  with  dangers. 
When  she  grew  to  know  Helen  better,  she  recog 
nized  that  these  fears  were  quite  unnecessary,  and 
as  she  saw  more  of  her  she  learned  to  care  for  her 
deeply.  Helen  had  told  her  much  of  Carroll  and 
of  his  double  purpose  in  coming  to  London;  of 
his  brilliant  work  and  his  lack  of  success  in  having 
it  recognized;  and  of  his  great  and  loyal  devotion 
to  her,  and  of  his  lack  of  success,  not  in  having 

24 


The  Lion  and  the  Unicorn 

that  recognized,  but  in  her  own  inability  to  return 
it.  Helen  was  proud  that  she  had  been  able  to 
make  Carroll  care  for  her  as  he  did,  and  that 
there  was  anything  about  her  which  could  inspire 
a  man  whom  she  admired  so  much  to  believe  in 
her  so  absolutely  and  for  so  long  a  time.  But 
what  convinced  her  that  the  outcome  for  which 
he  hoped  was  impossible,  was  the  very  fact  that 
she  could  admire  him,  and  see  how  fine  and  un 
selfish  his  love  for  her  was,  and  yet  remain  un 
touched  by  it. 

She  had  been  telling  Lady  Gower  one  day  of 
the  care  he  had  taken  of  her  ever  since  she  was 
fourteen  years  of  age,  and  had  quoted  some  of  the 
friendly  and  loverlike  acts  he  had  performed  in 
her  service,  until  one  day  they  had  both  found  out 
that  his  attitude  of  the  elder  brother  was  no  lon 
ger  possible,  and  that  he  loved  her  in  the  old  and 
only  way.  Lady  Gower  looked  at  her  rather 
doubtfully  and  smiled. 

"I  wish  you  would  bring  him  to  see  me,  Helen," 
she  said;  "I  think  I  should  like  your  friend  very 
much.  From  what  you  tell  me  of  him  I  doubt  if 
you  will  find  many  such  men  waiting  for  you  in 
this  country.  Our  men  marry  for  reasons  of  prop 
erty,  or  they  love  blindly,  and  are  exacting  and 
selfish  before  and  after  they  are  married.  I  know, 
because  so  many  women  came  to  me  when  my 

25 


The  Lion  and  the  Unicorn 

husband  was  alive  to  ask  how  it  was  that  I  con 
tinued  so  happy  in  my  married  life." 

"But  I  don't  want  to  marry  anyone,"  Helen  re 
monstrated,  gently.  "American  girls  are  not  al 
ways  thinking  only  of  getting  married." 

"What  I  meant  was  this,"  said  Lady  Gower: 
"that,  in  my  experience,  I  have  heard  of  but  few 
men  who  care  in  the  way  this  young  man  seems 
to  care  for  you.  You  say  you  do  not  love  him; 
but  if  he  had  wanted  to  gain  my  interest,  he  could 
not  have  pleaded  his  cause  better  than  you  have 
done.  He  seems  to  see  your  faults  and  yet  love 
you  still,  in  spite  of  them — or  on  account  of  them. 
And  I  like  the  things  he  does  for  you.  I  like,  for 
instance,  his  sending  you  the  book  of  the  moment 
every  week  for  two  years.  That  shows  a  most  un 
swerving  spirit  of  devotion.  And  the  story  of  the 
broken  bridge  in  the  woods  is  a  wonderful  story. 
If  I  were  a  young  girl,  I  could  love  a  man  for  that 
alone.  It  was  a  beautiful  thing  to  do." 

Helen  sat  with  her  chin  on  her  hands,  deeply 
considering  this  new  point  of  view. 

"I  thought  it  very  foolish  of  him,"  she  con 
fessed,  questioningly,  "to  take  such  a  risk  for  such 
a  little  thing." 

Lady  Gower  smiled  down  at  her  from  the  height 
of  her  many  years. 

"Wait,"  she  said,  dryly,  "you  are  very  young 
26 


The  Lion  and  the  Unicorn 

now — and  very  rich;  everyone  is  crowding  to  give 
you  pleasure,  to  show  his  admiration.  You  are 
a  very  fortunate  girl.  But  later,  these  things  which 
some  man  has  done  because  he  loved  you,  and 
which  you  call  foolish,  will  grow  large  in  your  life, 
and  shine  out  strongly,  and  when  you  are  discour 
aged  and  alone,  you  will  take  them  out,  and  the 
memory  of  them  will  make  you  proud  and  happy. 
They  are  the  honors  which  women  wear  in  se 
cret." 

Helen  came  back  to  town  in  September,  and  for 
the  first  few  days  was  so  occupied  in  refurnishing 
her  studio  and  in  visiting  the  shops  that  she  neg 
lected  to  send  Carroll  word  of  her  return.  When 
she  found  that  a  whole  week  had  passed  without 
her  having  made  any  effort  to  see  him,  and  appre 
ciated  how  the  fact  would  hurt  her  friend,  she 
was  filled  with  remorse,  and  drove  at  once  in  great 
haste  to  Jermyn  Street,  to  announce  her  return  in 
person.  On  the  way  she  decided  that  she  would 
soften  the  blow  of  her  week  of  neglect  by  asking 
him  to  take  her  out  to  luncheon.  This  privilege 
she  had  once  or  twice  accorded  him,  and  she  felt 
that  the  pleasure  these  excursions  gave  Carroll 
were  worth  the  consternation  they  caused  to  Lady 
Gower. 

The  servant  was  uncertain  whether  Mr.  Carroll 
was  at  home  or  not,  but  Helen  was  too  intent 

27 


The  Lion  and  the  Unicorn 

upon  making  restitution  to  wait  for  the  fact  to  be 
determined,  and,  running  up  the  stairs,  knocked 
sharply  at  the  door  of  his  study. 

A  voice  bade  her  come  in,  and  she  entered,  ra 
diant  and  smiling  her  welcome.  But  Carroll  was 
not  there  to  receive  it,  and,  instead,  Marion  Cav 
endish  looked  up  at  her  from  his  desk,  where  she 
was  busily  writing.  Helen  paused  with  a  sur 
prised  laugh,  but  Marion  sprang  up  and  hailed 
her  gladly.  They  met  half  way  across  the  room 
and  kissed  each  other  with  the  most  friendly  feel 
ing. 

Philip  was  out,  Marion  said,  and  she  had  just 
stepped  in  for  a  moment  to  write  him  a  note.  If 
Helen  would  excuse  her,  she  would  finish  it,  as  she 
was  late  for  rehearsal. 

But  she  asked  over  her  shoulder,  with  great 
interest,  if  Helen  had  passed  a  pleasant  summer. 
She  thought  she  had  never  seen  her  looking  so 
well.  Helen  thought  Miss  Cavendish  herself  was 
looking  very  well  also,  but  Marion  said  no ;  that  she 
was  too  sunburnt,  she  would  not  be  able  to  wear 
a  dinner-dress  for  a  month.  There  was  a  pause 
while  Marion's  quill  scratched  violently  across 
Carroll's  note-paper.  Helen  felt  that  in  some  way 
she  was  being  treated  as  an  intruder;  or  worse,  as 
a  guest.  She  did  not  sit  down,  it  seemed  impos 
sible  to  do  so,  but  she  moved  uncertainly  about 


The  Lion  and  the  Unicorn 

the  room.  She  noted  that  there  were  many 
changes,  it  seemed  more  bare  and  empty;  her 
picture  was  still  on  the  writing-desk,  but  there 
were  at  least  six  new  photographs  of  Marion. 
Marion  herself  had  brought  them  to  the  room 
that  morning,  and  had  carefully  arranged  them 
in  conspicuous  places.  But  Helen  could  not 
know  that.  She  thought  there  was  an  unneces 
sary  amount  of  writing  scribbled  over  the  face 
of  each. 

Marion  addressed  her  letter  and  wrote  "Imme 
diate"  across  the  envelope,  and  placed  it  before 
the  clock  on  the  mantel-shelf.  "You  will  find 
Philip  looking  very  badly,"  she  said,  as  she  pulled 
on  her  gloves.  "He  has  been  in  town  all  summer, 
working  very  hard — he  has  had  no  holiday  at 
all.  I  don't  think  he's  well.  I  have  been  a  great 
deal  worried  about  him,"  she  added.  Her  face 
was  bent  over  the  buttons  of  her  glove,  and  when 
she  raised  her  blue  eyes  to  Helen  they  were  filled 
with  serious  concern. 

"Really,"  Helen  stammered,  "I — I  didn't  know 
— in  his  letters  he  seemed  very  cheerful." 

Marion  shook  her  head  and  turned  and  stood 
looking  thoughtfully  out  of  the  window.  "He's 
in  a  very  hard  place,"  she  began,  abruptly,  and 
then  stopped  as  though  she  had  thought  better 
of  what  she  intended  to  say.  Helen  tried  to  ask 

29 


The  Lion  and  the  Unicorn 

her  to  go  on,  but  could  not  bring  herself  to  do 
so.     She  wanted  to  get  away. 

"I  tell  him  he  ought  to  leave  London,"  Marion 
began  again;  "he  needs  a  change  and  a  rest." 

"I  should  think  he  might,"  Helen  agreed,  "after 
three  months  of  this  heat.  He  wrote  me  he  in 
tended  going  to  Herne  Bay  or  over  to  Ostend." 

"Yes,  he  had  meant  to  go,"  Marion  answered. 
She  spoke  with  the  air  of  one  who  possessed  the 
most  intimate  knowledge  of  Carroll's  movements 
and  plans,  and  change  of  plans.  "But  he  couldn't," 
she  added.  "He  couldn't  afford  it.  Helen,"  she 
said,  turning  to  the  other  girl,  dramatically,  "do 
you  know — I  believe  that  Philip  is  very  poor." 

Miss  Cabot  exclaimed,  incredulously,  "Poor!" 
She  laughed.  "Why,  what  do  you  mean?" 

"I  mean  that  he  has  no  money,"  Marion  an 
swered,  sharply.  "These  rooms  represent  nothing. 
He  only  keeps  them  on  because  he  paid  for  them 
in  advance.  He's  been  living  on  three  shillings 
a  day.  That's  poor  for  him.  He  takes  his  meals 
at  cabmen's  shelters  and  at  Lockhart's,  and  he's 
been  doing  so  for  a  month." 

Helen  recalled  with  a  guilty  thrill  the  receipt 
of  certain  boxes  of  La  France  roses — cut  long,  in 
the  American  fashion — which  had  arrived  within 
the  last  month  at  various  country-houses.  She  felt 
indignant  at  herself,  and  miserable.  Her  indigna- 

30 


The  Lion  and  the  Unicorn 

tion  was  largely  due  to  the  recollection  that  she 
had  given  these  flowers  to  her  hostess  to  decorate 
the  dinner-table. 

She  hated  to  ask  this  girl  of  things  which  she 
should  have  known  better  than  anyone  else.  But 
she  forced  herself  to  do  it.  She  felt  she  must 
know  certainly  and  at  once. 

"How  do  you  know  this?"  she  asked.  "Are  you 
sure  there  is  no  mistake?" 

"He  told  me  himself,"  said  Marion,  "when  he 
talked  of  letting  the  plays  go  and  returning  to 
America.  He  said  he  must  go  back;  that  his 
money  was  gone." 

"He  is  gone  to  America !"  Helen  said,  blankly. 

"No,  he  wanted  to  go,  but  I  wouldn't  let  him," 
Marion  went  on.  "I  told  him  that  someone  might 
take  his  play  any  day.  And  this  third  one  he  has 
written,  the  one  he  finished  this  summer  in  town, 
is  the  best  of  all,  I  think.  It's  a  love-story.  It's 
quite  beautiful."  She  turned  and  arranged  her 
veil  at  the  glass,  and  as  she  did  so,  her  eyes  fell 
on  the  photographs  of  herself  scattered  over  the 
mantel-piece,  and  she  smiled  slightly.  But  Helen 
did  not  see  her — she  was  sitting  down  now,  pull 
ing  at  the  books  on  the  table.  She  was  confused 
and  disturbed  by  emotions  which  were  quite 
strange  to  her,  and  when  Marion  bade  her  good- 
by  she  hardly  noticed  her  departure.  What  im- 


The  Lion  and  the  Unicorn 

pressed  her  most  of  all  in  what  Marion  had  told 
her  was,  she  was  surprised  to  find,  that  Philip  was 
going  away.  That  she  herself  had  frequently 
urged  him  to  do  so,  for  his  own  peace  of  mind, 
seemed  now  of  no  consequence.  Now  that  he 
seriously  contemplated  it,  she  recognized  that  his 
absence  meant  to  her  a  change  in  everything.  She 
felt  for  the  first  time  the  peculiar  place  he  held 
in  her  life.  Even  if  she  had  seen  him  but  seldom, 
the  fact  that  he  was  within  call  had  been  more  of 
a  comfort  and  a  necessity  to  her  than  she  under 
stood. 

That  he  was  poor,  concerned  her  chiefly  because 
she  knew  that,  although  this  condition  could  only 
be  but  temporary,  it  would  distress  him  not  to 
have  his  friends  around  him,  and  to  entertain  them 
as  he  had  been  used  to  do.  She  wondered  eagerly 
if  she  might  offer  to  help  him,  but  a  second  thought 
assured  her  that,  for  a  man,  that  sort  of  help  from, 
a  woman  was  impossible. 

She  resented  the  fact  that  Marion  was  deep  in 
his  confidence;  that  it  was  Marion  who  had  told 
her  of  his  changed  condition  and  of  his  plans.  It 
annoyed  her  so  acutely  that  she  could  not  remain 
in  the  room  where  she  had  seen  her  so  complacently 
in  possession.  And  after  leaving  a  brief  note  for 
Philip,  she  went  away.  She  stopped  a  hansom  at 
the  door,  and  told  the  man  to  drive  along  the  Em- 

32 


The  Lion  and  the  Unicorn 

bankment — she  wanted  to  be  quite  alone,  and  she 
felt  she  could  see  no  one  until  she  had  thought  it 
all  out,  and  had  analyzed  the  new  feelings. 

So  for  several  hours  she  drove  slowly  up  and 
down,  sunk  far  back  in  the  cushions  of  the  cab, 
and  staring  with  unseeing  eyes  at  the  white  enam 
elled  tariff  and  the  black  dash-board. 

She  assured  herself  that  she  was  not  jealous  of 
Marion,  because,  in  order  to  be  jealous,  she  first 
would  have  to  care  for  Philip  in  the  very  way 
she  could  not  bring  herself  to  do. 

She  decided  that  his  interest  in  Marion  hurt  her, 
because  it  showed  that  Philip  was  not  capable  of 
remaining  true  to  the  one  ideal  of  his  life.  She 
was  sure  that  this  explained  her  feelings — she  was 
disappointed  that  he  had  not  kept  up  to  his  own 
standard;  that  he  was  weak  enough  to  turn  aside 
from  it  for  the  first  pretty  pair  of  eyes.  But  she 
was  too  honest  and  too  just  to  accept  that  diagnosis 
of  her  feelings  as  final — she  knew  there  had  been 
many  pairs  of  eyes  in  America  and  in  London,  and 
that  though  Philip  had  seen  them,  he  had  not  an 
swered  them  when  they  spoke.  No,  she  confessed 
frankly,  she  was  hurt  with  herself  for  neglecting 
her  old  friend  so  selfishly  and  for  so  long  a  time; 
his  love  gave  him  claims  on  her  consideration,  at 
least,  and  she  had  forgotten  that  and  him,  and  had 
run  after  strange  gods  and  allowed  others  to  come 

33 


The  Lion  and  the  Unicorn 

in  and  take  her  place,  and  to  give  him  the  sym 
pathy  and  help  which  she  should  have  been  the 
first  to  offer,  and  which  would  have  counted  more 
when  coming  from  her  than  from  anyone  else. 
She  determined  to  make  amends  at  once  for  her 
thoughtlessness  and  selfishness,  and  her  brain  was 
pleasantly  occupied  with  plans  and  acts  of  kind 
ness.  It  was  a  new  entertainment,  and  she  found 
she  delighted  in  it.  She  directed  the  cabman  to 
go  to  Solomons's,  and  from  there  sent  Philip  a 
bunch  of  flowers  and  a  line  saying  that  on  the  fol 
lowing  day  she  was  coming  to  take  tea  with  him. 
She  had  a  guilty  feeling  that  he  might  consider 
her  friendly  advances  more  seriously  than  she 
meant  them,  but  it  was  her  pleasure  to  be  reck 
less:  her  feelings  were  running  riotously,  and  the 
sensation  was  so  new  that  she  refused  to  be  circum 
spect  or  to  consider  consequences.  Who  could 
tell,  she  asked  herself  with  a  quick,  frightened 
gasp,  but  that,  after  all,  it  might  be  that  she  was 
learning  to  care?  From  Solomons's  she  bade  the 
man  drive  to  the  shop  in  Cranbourne  Street  where 
she  was  accustomed  to  purchase  the  materials  she 
used  in  painting,  and  Fate,  which  uses  strange 
agents  to  work  out  its  ends,  so  directed  it  that  the 
cabman  stopped  a  few  doors  below  this  shop,  and 
opposite  one  where  jewelry  and  other  personal  ef 
fects  were  bought  and  sold.  At  any  other  time, 

34 


The  Lion  and  the  Unicorn 

or  had  she  been  in  any  other  mood,  what  followed 
might  not  have  occurred,  but  Fate,  in  the  person 
of  the  cabman,  arranged  it  so  that  the  hour  and 
the  opportunity  came  together. 

There  were  some  old  mezzotints  in  the  window 
of  the  loan-shop,  a  string  of  coins  and  medals,  a 
row  of  new  French  posters;  and  far  down  to  the 
front  a  tray  filled  with  gold  and  silver  cigarette- 
cases  and  watches  and  rings.  It  occurred  to  Helen, 
who  was  still  bent  on  making  restitution  for  her 
neglect,  that  a  cigarette-case  would  be  more  appro 
priate  for  a  man  than  flowers,  and  more  lasting. 
And  she  scanned  the  contents  of  the  window  with 
the  eye  of  one  who  now  saw  in  everything  only 
something  which  might  give  Philip  pleasure.  The 
two  objects  of  value  in  the  tray  upon  which  her  eyes 
first  fell  were  the  gold  seal-ring  with  which  Philip 
had  sealed  his  letters  to  her,  and,  lying  next  to  it, 
his  gold  watch !  There  was  something  almost  hu 
man  in  the  way  the  ring  and  watch  spoke  to  her 
from  the  past — in  the  way  they  appealed  to  her 
to  rescue  them  from  the  surroundings  to  which 
they  had  been  abandoned.  She  did  not  know  what 
she  meant  to  do  with  them  nor  how  she  could  re 
turn  them  to  Philip;  but  there  was  no  question  of 
doubt  in  her  manner  as  she  swept  with  a  rush  into 
the  shop.  There  was  no  attempt,  either,  at  bar 
gaining  in  the  way  in  which  she  pointed  out  to  the 

35 


The  Lion  and  the  Unicorn 

young  woman  behind  the  counter  the  particular 
ring  and  watch  she  wanted.  They  had  not  been 
left  as  collateral,  the  young  woman  said;  they  had 
been  sold  outright. 

"Then  anyone  can  buy  them?"  Helen  asked, 
eagerly.  "They  are  for  sale  to  the  public — to  any 
one?" 

The  young  woman  made  note  of  the  customer's 
eagerness,  but  with  an  unmoved  countenance. 

"Yes,  miss,  they  are  for  sale.  The  ring  is  four 
pounds  and  the  watch  twenty-five." 

"Twenty-nine  pounds!"  Helen  gasped. 

That  was  more  money  than  she  had  in  the  world, 
but  the  fact  did  not  distress  her,  for  she  had  a  true 
artistic  disregard  for  ready  money,  and  the  ab 
sence  of  it  had  never  disturbed  her.  But  now  it 
assumed  a  sudden  and  alarming  value.  She  had 
ten  pounds  in  her  purse  and  ten  pounds  at  her 
studio — these  were  just  enough  to  pay  for  a  quar 
ter's  rent  and  the  rates,  and  there  was  a  hat  and 
cloak  in  Bond  Street  which  she  certainly  must  have. 
Her  only  assets  consisted  of  the  possibility  that 
someone  might  soon  order  a  miniature,  and  to 
her  mind  that  was  sufficient.  Someone  always 
had  ordered  a  miniature,  and  there  was  no  reason 
able  doubt  but  that  someone  would  do  it  again. 
For  a  moment  she  questioned  if  it  would  not  be 
sufficient  if  she  bought  tfec  ring  and  allowed  the 

36 


The  Lion  and  the  Unicorn 

watch  to  remain.  But  she  recognized  that  the 
ring  meant  more  to  her  than  the  watch,  while  the 
latter,  as  an  old  heirloom  which  had  been  passed 
down  to  him  from  a  great-grandfather,  meant 
more  to  Philip.  It  was  for  Philip  she  was  doing 
this,  she  reminded  herself.  She  stood  holding  his 
possessions,  one  in  each  hand,  and  looking  at  the 
young  woman  blankly.  She  had  no  doubt  in  her 
mind  that  at  least  part  of  the  money  he  had  re 
ceived  for  them  had  paid  for  the  flowers  he  had 
sent  to  her  in  Scotland.  The  certainty  of  this  left 
her  no  choice.  She  laid  the  ring  and  watch  down 
and  pulled  the  only  ring  she  possessed  from  her 
own  finger.  It  was  a  gift  from  Lady  Gower.  She 
had  no  doubt  that  it  was  of  great  value. 

"Can  you  lend  me  some  money  on  that?"  she 
asked.  It  was  the  first  time  she  had  conducted  a 
business  transaction  of  this  nature,  and  she  felt  as 
though  she  were  engaging  in  a  burglary. 

"We  don't  lend  money,  miss,"  the  girl  said,  "we 
buy  outright.  I  can  give  you  twenty-eight  shil 
lings  for  this,"  she  added. 

"Twenty-eight  shillings !"  Helen  gasped.  "Why, 
it  is  worth — oh,  ever  so  much  more  than  that!" 

"That  is  all  it  is  worth  to  us,"  the  girl  answered. 
She  regarded  the  ring  indifferently  and  laid  it  away 
from  her  on  the  counter.  The  action  was  final. 

Helen's  hands  rose  slowly  to  her  breast,  where 
37 


The  Lion  and  the  Unicorn 

a  pretty  watch  dangled  from  a  bow-knot  of  crushed 
diamonds.  It  was  her  only  possession,  and  she 
was  very  fond  of  it.  It  also  was  the  gift  of  one 
of  the  several  great  ladies  who  had  adopted  her 
since  her  residence  in  London.  Helen  had  painted 
a  miniature  of  this  particular  great  lady  which  had 
looked  so  beautiful  that  the  pleasure  which  the 
original  of  the  portrait  derived  from  the  thought 
that  she  still  really  looked  as  she  did  in  the  minia 
ture  was  worth  more  to  her  than  many  diamonds. 

But  it  was  different  with  Helen,  and  no  one 
could  count  what  it  cost  her  to  tear  away  her  one 
proud  possession. 

"What  will  you  give  me  for  this?"  she  asked, 
defiantly. 

The  girl's  eyes  showed  greater  interest.  "I  can 
give  you  twenty  pounds  for  that,"  she  said. 

"Take  it,  please,"  Helen  begged,  as  though  she 
feared  if  she  kept  it  a  moment  longer  she  might 
not  be  able  to  make  the  sacrifice. 

"That  will  be  enough  now,"  she  went  on,  taking 
out  her  ten-pound  note.  She  put  Lady  Gower's 
ring  back  upon  her  finger  and  picked  up  Philip's 
ring  and  watch  with  the  pleasure  of  one  who  has 
come  into  a  great  fortune.  She  turned  back  at 
the  door. 

"Oh,"  she  stammered,  "in  case  anyone  should 
inquire,  you  are  not  to  say  who  bought  these." 

38 


The  Lion  and  the  Unicorn 

"No,  miss,  certainly  not,"  said  the  woman. 
Helen  gave  the  direction  to  the  cabman  and,  clos 
ing  the  doors  of  the  hansom,  sat  looking  down  at 
the  watch  and  the  ring,  as  they  lay  in  her  lap. 
The  thought  that  they  had  been  his  most  valued 
possessions,  which  he  had  abandoned  forever,  and 
that  they  were  now  entirely  hers,  to  do  with  as  she 
liked,  filled  her  with  most  intense  delight  and  pleas 
ure.  She  took  up  the  heavy  gold  ring  and  placed 
it  on  the  little  finger  of  her  left  hand;  it  was  much 
too  large,  and  she  removed  it  and  balanced  it  for 
a  moment  doubtfully  in  the  palm  of  her  right  hand. 
She  was  smiling,  and  her  face  was  lit  with  shy  and 
tender  thoughts.  She  cast  a  quick  glance  to  the 
left  and  right  as  though  fearful  that  people  pass 
ing  in  the  street  would  observe  her,  and  then 
slipped  the  ring  over  the  fourth  finger  of  her  left 
hand.  She  gazed  at  it  with  a  guilty  smile,  and 
then,  covering  it  hastily  with  her  other  hand, 
leaned  back,  clasping  it  closely,  and  sat  frowning 
far  out  before  her  with  puzzled  eyes. 

To  Carroll  all  roads  led  past  Helen's  studio, 
and  during  the  summer,  while  she  had  been  absent 
in  Scotland,  it  was  one  of  his  sad  pleasures  to  make 
a  pilgrimage  to  her  street  and  to  pause  opposite 
the  house  and  look  up  at  the  empty  windows  of 
her  rooms.  It  was  during  this  daily  exercise  that 
he  learned,  through  the  arrival  of  her  luggage,  of 

39 


The  Lion  and  the  Unicorn 

her  return  to  London,  and  when  day  followed  day 
without  her  having  shown  any  desire  to  see  him 
or  to  tell  him  of  her  return,  he  denounced  himself 
most  bitterly  as  a  fatuous  fool. 

At  the  end  of  the  week  he  sat  down  and  con 
sidered  his  case  quite  calmly.  For  three  years  he 
had  loved  this  girl,  deeply  and  tenderly.  He  had 
been  lover,  brother,  friend,  and  guardian.  During 
that  time,  even  though  she  had  accepted  him  in 
every  capacity  except  as  that  of  the  prospective 
husband,  she  had  never  given  him  any  real  affec 
tion,  nor  sympathy,  nor  help;  all  she  had  done 
for  him  had  been  done  without  her  knowledge  or 
intent.  To  know  her,  to  love  her,  and  to  scheme 
to  give  her  pleasure  had  been  its  own  reward,  and 
the  only  one.  For  the  last  few  months  he  had 
been  living  like  a  crossing  sweeper  in  order  to  be 
able  to  stay  in  London  until  she  came  back  to  it, 
and  that  he  might  still  send  her  the  gifts  he  had 
always  laid  on  her  altar.  He  had  not  seen  her 
in  three  months.  Three  months  that  had  been 
to  him  a  blank,  except  for  his  work — which,  like 
all  else  that  he  did,  was  inspired  and  carried  on 
for  her.  Now  at  last  she  had  returned  and  had 
shown  that,  even  as  a  friend,  he  was  of  so  little 
account  in  her  thoughts,  of  so  little  consequence 
in  her  life,  that  after  this  long  absence  she  had 
no  desire  to  learn  of  his  welfare  or  to  see  him 

40 


The  Lion  and  the  Unicorn 

— she  did  not  even  give  him  the  chance  to  see 
her.  And  so,  placing  these  facts  before  him  for 
the  first  time  since  he  had  loved  her,  he  considered 
what  was  due  to  himself.  "Was  it  good  enough?" 
he  asked.  "Was  it  just  that  he  should  continue  to 
wear  out  his  soul  and  body  for  this  girl  who  did 
not  want  what  he  had  to  give,  who  treated  him 
less  considerately  than  a  man  whom  she  met  for 
the  first  time  at  dinner?"  He  felt  he  had  reached 
the  breaking-point;  that  the  time  had  come  when 
he  must  consider  what  he  owed  to  himself.  There 
could  never  be  any  other  woman  save  Helen;  but 
as  it  was  not  to  be  Helen,  he  could  no  longer, 
with  self-respect,  continue  to  proffer  his  love  only 
to  see  it  slighted  and  neglected.  He  was  humble 
enough  concerning  himself,  but  of  his  love  he  was 
very  proud.  Other  men  could  give  her  more  in 
wealth  or  position,  but  no  one  could  ever  l4ve  her 
as  he  did.  "He  that  hath  more  let  him  give,"  he 
had  often  quoted  to  her  defiantly,  as  though  he 
were  challenging  the  world,  and  now  he  felt  he 
must  evolve  a  make-shift  world  of  his  own — a 
world  in  which  she  was  not  his  only  spring  of 
acts;  he  must  begin  all  over  again  and  keep  his 
love  secret  and  sacred  until  she  understood  it  and 
wanted  it.  And  if  she  should  never  want  it  he 
would  at  least  have  saved  it  from  many  rebuffs 
and  insults. 


The  Lion  and  the  Unicorn 

With  this  determination  strong  in  him,  the  note 
Helen  had  left  for  him  after  her  talk  with  Marion, 
and  the  flowers,  and  the  note  with  them,  saying 
she  was  coming  to  take  tea  on  the  morrow,  failed 
to  move  him  except  to  make  him  more  bitter.  He 
saw  in  them  only  a  tardy  recognition  of  her  neglect 
— an  effort  to  make  up  to  him  for  thoughtlessness 
which,  from  her,  hurt  him  worse  than  studied 
slight. 

A  new  regime  had  begun,  and  he  was  deter 
mined  to  establish  it  firmly  and  to  make  it  impos 
sible  for  himself  to  retreat  from  it;  and  in  the 
note  in  which  he  thanked  Helen  for  the  flowers 
and  welcomed  her  to  tea,  he  declared  his  ultima 
tum. 

"You  know  how  terribly  I  feel,"  he  wrote;  "I 
don't  have  to  tell  you  that,  but  I  cannot  always 
go  on  dragging  out  my  love  and  holding  it  up  to 
excite  your  pity  as  beggars  show  their  sores.  I 
cannot  always  go  on  praying  before  your  altar, 
cutting  myself  with  knives  and  calling  upon  you 
to  listen  to  me.  You  know  that  there  is  no  one 
else  but  you,  and  that  there  never  can  be  anyone 
but  you,  and  that  nothing  is  changed  except  that 
after  this  I  am  not  going  to  urge  and  torment  you. 
I  shall  wait  as  I  have  always  waited — only  now 
I  shall  wait  in  silence.  You  know  just  how  little, 
in  one  way,  I  have  to  offer  you,  and  you  know 

42 


The  Lion  and  the  Unicorn 

just  how  much  I  have  in  love  to  offer  you.  It  is 
now  for  you  to  speak — some  day,  or  never.  But 
you  will  have  to  speak  first.  You  will  never  hear 
a  word  of  love  from  me  again.  Why  should  you  ? 
Ycra  know  it  is  always  waiting  for  you.  But  if 
you  should  ever  want  it,  you  must  come  to  me, 
and  take  off  your  hat  and  put  it  on  my  table  and 
say,  'Philip,  I  have  come  to  stay.'  Whether  you 
can  ever  do  that  or  not  can  make  no  difference  in 
my  love  for  you.  I  shall  love  you  always,  as  no 
man  has  ever  loved  a  woman  in  this  world,  but  it 
is  you  who  must  speak  first;  for  me,  the  rest  is 
silence." 

The  following  morning  as  Helen  was  leaving 
the  house  she  found  this  letter  lying  on  the  hall- 
table,  and  ran  back  with  it  to  her  rooms.  A  week 
before  she  would  have  let  it  lie  on  the  table  and 
read  it  on  her  return.  She  was  conscious  that  this 
was  what  she  would  have  done,  and  it  pleased  her 
to  find  that  what  concerned  Philip  was  now  to  her 
the  thing  of  greatest  interest.  She  was  pleased 
with  her  own  eagerness — her  own  happiness  was 
a  welcome  sign,  and  she  was  proud  and  glad  that 
she  was  learning  to  care. 

She  read  the  letter  with  an  anxious  pride  and 
pleasure  in  each  word  that  was  entirely  new. 
Philip's  recriminations  did  not  hurt  her,  they  were 
the  sign  that  he  cared;  nor  did  his  determination 

43 


The  Lion  and  the  Unicorn 

not  to  speak  of  his  love  to  her  hurt  her,  for  she 
believed  him  when  he  said  that  he  would  always 
care.  She  read  the  letter  twice,  and  then  sat  for 
some  time  considering  the  kind  of  letter  Philip 
would  have  written  had  he  known  her  secret — had 
he  known  that  the  ring  he  had  abandoned  was  now 
upon  her  finger. 

She  rose  and,  crossing  to  a  desk,  placed  the 
letter  in  a  drawer,  and  then  took  it  out  again  and 
reread  the  last  page.  When  she  had  finished  it 
she  was  smiling.  For  a  moment  she  stood  irreso 
lute,  and  then,  moving  slowly  toward  the  centre- 
table,  cast  a  guilty  look  about  her  and,  raising  her 
hands,  lifted  her  veil  and  half  withdrew  the  pins 
that  fastened  her  hat. 

"Philip,"  she  began,  in  a  frightened  whisper, 
"I  have — I  have  come  to " 

The  sentence  ended  in  a  cry  of  protest,  and  she 
rushed  across  the  room  as  though  she  were  run 
ning  from  herself.  She  was  blushing  violently. 

"Never!"  she  cried,  as  she  pulled  open  the  door; 
"I  could  never  do  it — never!" 

The  following  afternoon,  when  Helen  was  to 
come  to  tea,  Carroll  decided  that  he  would  re 
ceive  her  with  all  the  old  friendliness,  but  that  he 
must  be  careful  to  subdue  all  emotion. 

He  was  really  deeply  hurt  at  her  treatment,  and 
had  it  not  been  that  she  came  on  her  own  invita- 

44 


The  Lion  and  the   Unicorn 

tion  he  would  not  of  his  own  accord  have  sought 
to  see  her.  In  consequence,  he  rather  welcomed 
than  otherwise  the  arrival  of  Marion  Cavendish, 
who  came  a  half-hour  before  Helen  was  expected, 
and  who  followed  a  hasty  knock  with  a  precipitate 
entrance. 

"Sit  down,"  she  commanded,  breathlessly,  "and 
listen.  I've  been  at  rehearsal  all  day,  or  I'd  have 
been  here  before  you  were  awake."  She  seated 
herself  nervously  and  nodded  her  head  at  Carroll 
in  an  excited  and  mysterious  manner. 

"What  is  it?"  he  asked.  "Have  you  and  Reg 
gie—" 

"Listen,"  Marion  repeated.  "Our  fortunes  are 
made;  that  is  what's  the  matter — and  I've  made 
them.  If  you  took  half  the  interest  in  your  work 
I  do,  you'd  have  made  yours  long  ago.  Last 
night,"  she  began,  impressively,  "I  went  to  a  large 
supper  at  the  Savoy,  and  I  sat  next  to  Charley 
Wimpole.  He  came  in  late,  after  everybody  had 
finished,  and  I  attacked  him  while  he  was  eating 
his  supper.  He  said  he  had  been  rehearsing 
'Caste'  after  the  performance;  that  they've  put  it 
on  as  a  stop-gap  on  account  of  the  failure  of  'The 
Triflers,'  and  that  he  knew  revivals  were  of  no 
use;  that  he  would  give  any  sum  for  a  good  mod 
ern  comedy.  That  was  my  cue,  and  I  told  him 
I  knew  of  a  better  comedy  than  any  he  had  pro- 

45 


The  Lion  and  the   Unicorn 

duced  at  his  theatre  in  five  years,  and  that  it  was 
going  begging.  He  laughed,  and  asked  where  was 
he  to  find  this  wonderful  comedy,  and  I  said,  'It's 
been  in  your  safe  for  the  last  two  months  and  you 
haven't  read  it.'  He  said,  'Indeed,  how  do  you 
know  that?'  and  I  said,  'Because  if  you'd  read  it, 
it  wouldn't  be  in  your  safe,  but  on  your  stage.' 
So  he  asked  me  what  the  play  was  about,  and  I 
told  him  the  plot  and  what  sort  of  a  part  his  was, 
and  some  of  his  scenes,  and  he  began  to  take  no 
tice.  He  forgot  his  supper,  and  very  soon  he  grew 
so  interested  that  he  turned  his  chair  round  and 
kept  eying  my  supper-card  to  find  out  who  I  was, 
and  at  last  remembered  seeing  me  in  'The  New 
Boy' — and  a  rotten  part  it  was,  too — but  he  re 
membered  it,  and  he  told  me  to  go  on  and  tell 
him  more  about  your  play.  So  I  recited  it,  bit  by 
bit,  and  he  laughed  in  all  the  right  places  and  got 
very  much  excited,  and  said  finally  that  he  would 
read  it  the  first  thing  this  morning."  Marion 
paused,  breathlessly.  "Oh,  yes,  and  he  wrote  your 
address  on  his  cuff,"  she  added,  with  the  air  of 
delivering  a  complete  and  convincing  climax. 

Carroll  stared  at  her  and  pulled  excitedly  on 
his  pipe. 

"Oh,  Marion!"  he  gasped,  "suppose  he  should? 
He  won't,  though,"  he  added,  but  eying  her  eager 
ly  and  inviting  contradiction. 

46 


The  Lion  and  the  Unicorn 

"He  will,'*  she  answered,  stoutly,  "if  he  reads 
it." 

"The  other  managers  read  it,"  Carroll  suggest 
ed,  doubtfully. 

"Yes,  but  what  do  they  know?"  Marion  re 
turned,  loftily.  "He  knows.  Charles  Wimpole 
is  the  only  intelligent  actor-manager  in  London." 

There  was  a  sharp  knock  at  the  door,  which 
Marion  in  her  excitement  had  left  ajar,  and  Pren- 
tiss  threw  it  wide  open  with  an  impressive  sweep, 
as  though  he  were  announcing  royalty.  "Mr. 
Charles  Wimpole,"  he  said. 

The  actor-manager  stopped  in  the  doorway 
bowing  gracefully,  his  hat  held  before  him  and  his 
hand  on  his  stick  as  though  it  were  resting  on  a 
foil.  He  had  the  face  and  carriage  of  a  gallant 
of  the  days  of  Congreve,  and  he  wore  his  modern 
frock-coat  with  as  much  distinction  as  if  it  were 
of  silk  and  lace.  He  was  evidently  amused.  "I 
couldn't  help  overhearing  the  last  line,"  he  said, 
smiling.  "It  gives  me  a  good  entrance." 

Marion  gazed  at  him  blankly.  "Oh,"  she 
gasped,  "we — we — were  just  talking  about  you." 

"If  you  hadn't  mentioned  my  name,"  the  actor 
said,  "I  should  never  have  guessed  it.  And  this 
is  Mr.  Carroll,  I  hope." 

The  great  man  was  rather  pleased  with  the  situ 
ation.  As  he  read  it,  it  struck  him  as  possessing 

47 


The  Lion  and  the  Unicorn 

strong  dramatic  possibilities :  Carroll  was  the  strug 
gling  author  on  the  verge  of  starvation;  Marion, 
his  sweetheart,  flying  to  him  gave  him  hope;  and 
he  was  the  good  fairy  arriving  in  the  nick  of  time 
to  set  everything  right  and  to  make  the  young 
people  happy  and  prosperous.  He  rather  fancied 
himself  in  the  part  of  the  good  fairy,  and  as  he 
seated  himself  he  bowed  to  them  both  in  a  manner 
which  was  charmingly  inclusive  and  confidential. 

"Miss  Cavendish,  I  imagine,  has  already  warned 
you  that  you  might  expect  a  visit  from  me,"  he 
said,  tentatively.  Carroll  nodded.  He  was  too 
much  concerned  to  interrupt. 

"Then  I  need  only  tell  you,"  Wimpole  contin 
ued,  "that  I  got  up  at  an  absurd  hour  this  morn 
ing  to  read  your  play;  that  I  did  read  it;  that  I 
like  it  immensely — and  that  if  we  can  come  to 
terms  I  shall  produce  it.  I  shall  produce  it  at  once, 
within  a  fortnight  or  three  weeks." 

Carroll  was  staring  at  him  intently  and  contin 
ued  doing  so  after  Wimpole  had  finished  speak 
ing.  The  actor  felt  he  had  somehow  missed  his 
point,  or  that  Carroll  could  not  have  understood 
him,  and  repeated,  "I  say  I  shall  put  it  in  rehearsal 
at  once." 

Carroll  rose  abruptly,  and  pushed  back  his  chair. 
"I  should  be  very  glad,"  he  murmured,  and  strode 
over  to  the  window,  where  he  stood  with  his  back 

48 


The  Lion  and  the  Unicorn 

turned  to  his  guests.  Wimpole  looked  after  him 
with  a  kindly  smile  and  nodded  his  head  appre 
ciatively.  He  had  produced  even  a  greater  effect 
than  his  lines  seemed  to  warrant.  When  he  spoke 
again,  it  was  quite  simply,  and  sincerely,  and 
though  he  spoke  for  Carroll's  benefit,  he  addressed 
himself  to  Marion. 

"You  were  quite  right  last  night,"  he  said;  "it 
is  a  most  charming  piece  of  work.  I  am  really 
extremely  grateful  to  you  for  bringing  it  to  my 
notice."  He  rose,  and  going  to  Carroll,  put  his 
hand  on  his  shoulder.  "My  boy,"  he  said,  "I  con 
gratulate  you.  I  should  like  to  be  your  age,  and 
to  have  written  that  play.  Come  to  my  theatre 
to-morrow  and  we  will  talk  terms.  Talk  it  over 
first  with  your  friends,  so  that  I  sha'n't  rob  you. 
Do  you  think  you  would  prefer  a  lump  sum  now, 
and  so  be  done  with  it  altogether,  or  trust  that  the 
royalties  may " 

"Royalties,"  prompted  Marion,  in  an  eager 
aside. 

The  men  laughed.  "Quite  right,"  Wimpole 
assented,  good-humoredly ;  "it's  a  poor  sportsman 
who  doesn't  back  his  own  horse.  Well,  then,  un 
til  to-morrow." 

"But,"  Carroll  began,  "one  moment,  please. 
I  haven't  thanked  you." 

"My  dear  boy,"  cried  Wimpole,  waving  him 
49 


The  Lion  and  the  Unicorn 

away  with  his  stick,  "it  is  I  who  have  to  thank 
you." 

"And — and  there  is  a  condition,"  Carroll  said, 
"which  goes  with  the  play.  It  is  that  Miss  Cav 
endish  is  to  have  the  part  of  Nancy." 

Wimpole  looked  serious  and  considered  for  a 
moment. 

"Nancy"  he  said,  "the  girl  who  interferes — 
a  very  good  part.  I  have  cast  Miss  Maddox  for 
it  in  my  mind,  but,  of  course,  if  the  author  in 
sists " 

Marion,  with  her  elbows  on  the  table,  clasped 
her  hands  appealingly  before  her. 

"Oh,  Mr.  Wimpole !"  she  cried,  "you  owe  me 
that,  at  least." 

Carroll  kaned  over  and  took  both  of  Marion's 
hands  in  one  of  his. 

"It's  all  right,"  he  said;  "the  author  insists." 

Wimpole  waved  his  stick  again  as  though  it 
were  the  magic  wand  of  the  good  fairy. 

"You  shall  have  it,"  he  said.  "I  recall  your 
performance  in  'The  New  Boy'  with  pleasure.  I 
take  the  play,  and  Miss  Cavendish  shall  be  cast 
for  Nancy.  We  shall  begin  rehearsals  at  once. 
I  hope  you  are  a  quick  study." 

"I'm  letter-perfect  now,"  laughed  Marion. 

Wimpole  turned  at  the  door  and  nodded  to 
them.  They  were  both  so  young,  so  eager,  and 

50 


The  Lion  and  the  Unicorn 

so  jubilant  that  he  felt  strangely  old  and  out  of  it 
"Good-by,  then,"  he  said. 

"Good-by,  sir,"  they  both  chorused.  And 
Marion  cried  after  him,  "And  thank  you  a  thou 
sand  times." 

He  turned  again  and  looked  back  at  them,  but 
in  their  rejoicing  they  had  already  forgotten  him. 
"Bless  you,  my  children,"  he  said,  smiling.  As 
he  was  about  to  close  the  door  a  young  girl  came 
down  the  passage  toward  it,  and  as  she  was  ap 
parently  going  to  Carroll's  rooms,  the  actor  left 
the  door  open  behind  him. 

Neither  Marion  nor  Carroll  had  noticed  his 
final  exit.  They  were  both  gazing  at  each  other 
as  though,  could  they  find  speech,  they  would  ask 
if  it  were  true. 

"It's  come  at  last,  Marion,"  Philip  said,  with 
an  uncertain  voice. 

"I  could  weep,"  cried  Marion.  "Philip,"  she 
exclaimed,  "I  would  rather  see  that  play  succeed 
than  any  play  ever  written,  and  I  would  rather 
play  that  part  in  it  than —  Oh,  Philip,"  she  ended, 
"I'm  so  proud  of  you !"  and  rising,  she  threw  her 
arms  about  his  neck  and  sobbed  on  his  shoulder. 

Carroll  raised  one  of  her  hands  and  kissed  the 
tips  of  her  fingers  gently.  "I  owe  it  to  you,  Mari 
on,"  he  said — "all  to  you." 

This  was  the  tableau  that  was  presented  through 


The  Lion  and  the  Unicorn 

the  open  door  to  Miss  Helen  Cabot,  hurrying  on 
her  errand  of  restitution  and  good-will,  and  with 
Philip's  ring  and  watch  clasped  in  her  hand. 
They  had  not  heard  her,  nor  did  they  see  her  at 
the  door,  so  she  drew  back  quickly  and  ran  along 
the  passage  and  down  the  stairs  into  the  street. 

She  did  not  need  now  to  analyze  her  feelings. 
They  were  only  too  evident.  For  she  could  trans 
late  what  she  had  just  seen  as  meaning  only  one 
thing — that  she  had  considered  Philip's  love  so 
lightly  that  she  had  not  felt  it  passing  away  from 
her  until  her  neglect  had  killed  it — until  it  was 
too  late.  And  now  that  it  was  too  late  she  felt 
that  without  it  her  life  could  not  go  on.  She  tried 
to  assure  herself  that  only  the  fact  that  she  had 
lost  it  made  it  seem  invaluable,  but  this  thought 
did  not  comfort  her — she  was  not  deceived  by 
it,  she  knew  that  at  last  she  cared  for  him  deep 
ly  and  entirely.  In  her  distress  she  blamed  herself 
bitterly,  but  she  also  blamed  Philip  no  less  bitterly 
for  having  failed  to  wait  for  her.  "He  might 
have  known  that  I  must  love  him  in  time,"  she 
repeated  to  herself  again  and  again.  She  was  so 
unhappy  that  her  letter  congratulating  Philip  on 
his  good  fortune  in  having  his  comedy  accepted 
seemed  to  him  cold  and  unfeeling,  and  as  his  suc 
cess  meant  for  him  only  what  it  meant  to  her,  he 
was  hurt  and  grievously  disappointed. 

52 


The  Lion  and  the  Unicorn 

He  accordingly  turned  the  more  readily  to 
Marion,  whose  interests  and  enthusiasm  at  the  re 
hearsals  of  the  piece  seemed  in  contrast  most 
friendly  and  unselfish.  He  could  not  help  but  com 
pare  the  attitude  of  the  two  girls  at  this  time, 
when  the  failure  or  success  of  his  best  work  was 
still  undecided.  He  felt  that  as  Helen  took  so 
little  interest  in  his  success  he  could  not  dare  to 
trouble  her  with  his  anxieties  concerning  it,  and 
she  attributed  his  silence  to  his  preoccupation  and 
interest  in  Marion.  So  the  two  grew  apart,  each 
misunderstanding  the  other  and  each  troubled  in 
spirit  at  the  other's  indifference. 

The  first  night  of  the  play  justified  all  that 
Marion  and  Wimpole  had  claimed  for  it,  and  was 
a  great  personal  triumph  for  the  new  playwright. 
The  audience  was  the  typical  first-night  audience 
of  the  class  which  Charles  Wimpole  always  com 
manded.  It  was  brilliant,  intelligent,  and  smart, 
and  it  came  prepared  to  be  pleased. 

From  one  of  the  upper  stage-boxes  Helen  and 
Lady  Gower  watched  the  successful  progress  of 
the  play  with  an  anxiety  almost  as  keen  as  that  of 
the  author.  To  Helen  it  seemed  as  though  the 
giving  of  these  lines  to  the  public — these  lines 
which  he  had  so  often  read  to  her,  and  altered  to 
her  liking — was  a  desecration.  It  seemed  as 
though  she  were  losing  him  indeed — as  though 

S3 


The  Lion  and  the  Unicorn 

he  now  belonged  to  these  strange  people,  all  of 
whom  were  laughing  and  applauding  his  words, 
from  the  German  Princess  in  the  Royal  box  to 
the  straight-backed  Tommy  in  the  pit.  Instead 
of  the  painted  scene  before  her,  she  saw  the  birch- 
trees  by  the  river  at  home,  where  he  had  first  read 
her  the  speech  to  which  they  were  now  listening 
so  intensely — the  speech  in  which  the  hero  tells 
the  girl  he  loves  her.  She  remembered  that  at  the 
time  she  had  thought  how  wonderful  it  would 
be  if  some  day  someone  made  such  a  speech  to 
her — not  Philip,  but  a  man  she  loved.  And  now  ? 
If  Philip  would  only  make  that  speech  to  her 
now! 

He  came  out  at  last,  with  Wimpole  leading  him, 
and  bowed  across  a  glaring  barrier  of  lights  at  a 
misty  but  vociferous  audience  that  was  shouting 
the  generous  English  bravo !  and  standing  up  to 
applaud.  He  raised  his  eyes  to  the  box  where 
Helen  sat,  and  saw  her  staring  down  at  the  tumult, 
with  her  hands  clasped  under  her  chin.  Her  face 
was  colorless,  but  lit  with  the  excitement  of  the 
moment;  and  he  saw  that  she  was  crying. 

Lady  Gower,  from  behind  her,  was  clapping 
her  hands  delightedly. 

"But,  my  dear  Helen,"  she  remonstrated, 
breathlessly,  "you  never  told  me  he  was  so  good- 
looking." 

54 


Saw  her  staring  down  at  the  tumult. 


The  Lion  and  the  Unicorn 

"Yes,"  said  Helen,  rising  abruptly,  "he  is — very 
good-looking." 

She  crossed  the  box  to  where  her  cloak  was 
hanging,  but  instead  of  taking  it  down,  buried  her 
face  in  its  folds. 

"My  dear  child!"  cried  Lady  Gower,  in  dis 
may.  "What  is  it?  The  excitement  has  been  too 
much  for  you." 

"No,  I  am  just  happy,"  sobbed  Helen.  "I  am 
just  happy  for  him." 

"We  will  go  and  tell  him  so,  then,"  said  Lady 
Gower.  "I  am  sure  he  would  like  to  hear  it  from 
you  to-night." 

Philip  was  standing  in  the  centre  of  the  stage, 
surrounded  by  many  pretty  ladies  and  elderly 
men.  Wimpole  was  hovering  over  him  as  though 
he  had  claims  upon  him  by  the  right  of  discovery. 

But  when  Philip  saw  Helen,  he  pushed  his  way 
toward  her  eagerly  and  took  her  hand  in  both  of 
his. 

"I  am  so  glad,  Phil,"  she  said.  She  felt  it  all 
so  deeply  that  she  was  afraid  to  say  more,  but 
that  meant  so  much  to  her  that  she  was  sure  he 
would  understand. 

He  had  planned  it  very  differently.  For  a  year 
he  had  dreamed  that,  on  the  first  night  of  his 
play,  there  would  be  a  supper,  and  that  he  would 
rise  and  (kink  her  health,  and  tell  his  friends  and 

55 


The  Lion  and  the  Unicorn 

the  world  that  she  was  the  woman  he  loved,  and 
that  she  had  agreed  to  marry  him,  and  that  at 
last  he  was  able,  through  the  success  of  his  play, 
to  make  her  his  wife. 

And  now  they  met  in  a  crowd  to  shake  hands, 
and  she  went  her  way  with  one  of  her  grand 
ladies,  and  he  was  left  among  a  group  of  chatter 
ing  strangers.  The  great  English  playwright  took 
him  by  the  hand  and  in  the  hearing  of  all  praised 
him  gracefully  and  kindly.  It  did  not  matter  to 
Philip  whether  the  older  playwright  believed 
what  he  said  or  not;  he  knew  it  was  generously 
meant. 

"I  envy  you  this,"  the  great  man  was  saying. 
"Don't  lose  any  of  it,  stay  and  listen  to  all  they 
have  to  say.  You  will  never  live  through  the  first 
night  of  your  first  play  but  once." 

"Yes,  I  hear  them,"  said  Philip,  nervously; 
"they  are  all  too  kind.  But  I  don't  hear  the  voice 
I  have  been  listening  for,"  he  added,  in  a  whisper. 
The  older  man  pressed  his  hand  again  quickly. 
"My  dear  boy,"  he  said,  "I  am  sorry." 

"Thank  you,"  Philip  answered. 

Within  a  week  he  had  forgotten  the  great  man's 
fine  words  of  praise,  but  the  clasp  of  his  hand  he 
cherished  always. 

Helen  met  Marion  as  she  was  leaving  the  stage- 
door  and  stopped  to  congratulate  her  on  her  suc- 


The  Lion  and  the  Unicorn 

cess  in  the  new  part.  Marion  was  radiant.  To 
Helen  she  seemed  obstreperously  happy  and  ju 
bilant. 

"And,  Marion,"  Helen  began,  bravely,  "I  also 
want  to  congratulate  you  on  something  else.  You 
— you — neither  of  you  have  told  me  yet,"  she 
stammered,  "but  I  am  such  an  old  friend  of  both 
that  I  will  not  be  kept  out  of  the  secret."  At 
these  words  Marion's  air  of  triumphant  gayety 
vanished;  she  regarded  Helen's  troubled  eyes 
closely  and  kindly. 

"What  secret,  Helen?"  she  asked. 

"I  came  to  the  door  of  Philip's  room  the  other 
day  when  you  did  not  know  I  was  there,"  Helen 
answered,  "and  I  could  not  help  seeing  how  mat 
ters  were.  And  I  do  congratulate  you  both — and 
wish  you — oh,  such  happiness!"  Without  a  word 
Marion  dragged  her  back  down  the  passage  to 
her  dressing-room,  and  closed  the  door. 

"Now  tell  me  what  you  mean,"  she  said. 

"I  am  sorry  if  I  discovered  anything  you  didn't 
want  known  yet,"  said  Helen,  "but  the  door  was 
open.  Mr.  Wimpole  had  just  left  you  and  had 
not  shut  it,  and  I  could  not  help  seeing." 

Marion  interrupted  her  with  an  eager  exclama 
tion  of  enlightenment. 

"Oh,  you  were  there,  then,"  she  cried.  "And 
you?"  she  asked,  eagerly — "you  thought  Phil 

57 


The  Lion  and  the  Unicorn 

cared  for  me — that  we  are  engaged,  and  it  hurt 
you;  you  are  sorry?  Tell  me,"  she  demanded, 
"are  you  sorry?" 

Helen  drew  back  and  stretched  out  her  hand 
toward  the  door. 

"How  can  you !"  she  exclaimed,  indignantly. 
"You  have  no  right." 

Marion  stood  between  her  and  the  door. 

"I  have  every  right,"  she  said,  "to  help  my 
friends,  and  I  want  to  help  you  and  Philip.  And, 
indeed,  I  do  hope  you  are  sorry.  I  hope  you  are 
miserable.  And  I'm  glad  you  saw  me  kiss  him. 
That  was  the  first  and  the  last  time,  and  I  did  it 
because  I  was  happy  and  glad  for  him ;  and  because 
I  love  him,  too,  but  not  in  the  least  in  the  way  he 
loves  you.  No  one  ever  loved  anyone  as  he  loves 
you.  And  it's  time  you  found  it  out.  And  if  I 
have  helped  to  make  you  find  it  out,  I'm  glad,  and 
I  don't  care  how  much  I  hurt  you." 

"Marion!"  exclaimed  Helen,  "what  does  it 
mean?  Do  you  mean  that  you  are  not  engaged; 
that " 

"Certainly  not,"  Marion  answered.  "I  am  go 
ing  to  marry  Reggie.  It  is  you  that  Philip  loves, 
and  I  am  very  sorry  for  you  that  you  don't  love 
him." 

Helen  clasped  Marion's  hands  in  both  of 
hers. 

58 


The  Lion  and  the  Unicorn 

"But,  Marion!"  she  cried,  "I  do,  oh,  I  do!" 

There  was  a  thick  yellow  fog  the  next  morning, 
and  with  it  rain  and  a  sticky,  depressing  dampness 
which  crept  through  the  window-panes,  and  which 
neither  a  fire  nor  blazing  gas-jets  could  overcome. 

Philip  stood  in  front  of  the  fireplace  with  the 
morning  papers  piled  high  on  the  centre-table  and 
scattered  over  the  room  about  him. 

He  had  read  them  all,  and  he  knew  now  what 
it  was  to  wake  up  famous,  but  he  could  not  taste 
it.  Now  that  it  had  come  it  meant  nothing,  and 
that  it  was  so  complete  a  triumph  only  made  it  the 
harder.  In  his  most  optimistic  dreams  he  had 
never  imagined  success  so  satisfying  as  the  reality 
had  proved  to  be;  but  in  his  dreams  Helen  had 
always  held  the  chief  part,  and  without  her,  suc 
cess  seemed  only  to  mock  him. 

He  wanted  to  lay  it  all  before  her,  to  say,  "If 
you  are  pleased,  I  am  happy.  If  you  are  satisfied, 
then  I  am  content.  It  was  done  for  you,  and  I 
am  wholly  yours,  and  all  that  I  do  is  yours." 
And,  as  though  in  answer  to  his  thoughts,  there 
was  an  instant  knock  at  the  door,  and  Helen  en 
tered  the  room  and  stood  smiling  at  him  across  the 
table. 

Her  eyes  were  lit  with  excitement,  and  spoke 
with  many  emotions,  and  her  cheeks  were  brilliant 

59 


The  Lion  and  the  Unicorn 

with  color.     He  had  never  seen  her  look  more 
beautiful. 

"Why,  Helen!"  he  exclaimed,  "how  good  of 
you  to  come.  Is  there  anything  wrong?  Is  any 
thing  the  matter?" 

She  tried  to  speak,  but  faltered,  and  smiled  at 
him  appealingly. 

"What  is  it?"  he  asked  in  great  concern. 

Helen  drew  in  her  breath  quickly,  and  at  the 
same  moment  motioned  him  away — and  he  stepped 
back  and  stood  watching  her  in  much  perplexity. 

With  her  eyes  fixed  on  his  she  raised  her  hands 
to  her  head,  and  her  fingers  fumbled  with  the  knot 
of  her  veil.  She  pulled  it  loose,  and  then,  with  a 
sudden  courage,  lifted  her  hat  proudly,  as  though 
it  were  a  coronet,  and  placed  it  between  them  on 
his  table. 

"Philip,"  she  stammered,  with  the  tears  in  her 
voice  and  eyes,  "if  you  will  let  me — I  have  come 
to  stay." 

The  table  was  no  longer  between  them.  He 
caught  her  in  his  arms  and  kissed  her  face  and 
her  uncovered  head  again  and  again.  From  out 
side  the  rain  beat  drearily  and  the  fog  rolled 
through  the  street,  but  inside  before  the  fire  the 
two  young  people  sat  close  together,  asking  eager 
questions  or  sitting  in  silence,  staring  at  the  flames 
with  wondering,  happy  eyes. 

60 


The  Lion  and  the  Unicorn 

The  Lion  and  the  Unicorn  saw  them  only  once 
again.  It  was  a  month  later  when  they  stopped 
in  front  of  the  shop  in  a  four-wheeler,  with  their 
baggage  mixed  on  top  of  it,  and  steamer-labels 
pasted  over  every  trunk. 

"And,  oh,  Prentiss!"  Carroll  called  from  the 
cab-window.  "I  came  near  forgetting.  I  prom 
ised  to  gild  the  Lion  and  the  Unicorn  if  I  won 
out  in  London.  So  have  it  done,  please,  and  send 
the  bill  to  me.  For  I've  won  out  all  right."  And 
then  he  shut  the  door  of  the  cab,  and  they  drove 
away  forever. 

"Nice  gal,  that,"  growled  the  Lion.  "I  always 
liked  her.  I  am  glad  they've  settled  it  at  last." 

The  Unicorn  sighed  sentimentally.  "The  other 
one's  worth  two  of  her,"  he  said. 


61 


CINDERELLA. 


Cinderella 

THE  servants  of  the  Hotel  Salisbury,  which 
is  so  called  because  it  is  situated  on  Broad 
way  and  conducted  on  the  American  plan  by  a 
man  named  Riggs,  had  agreed  upon  a  date  for 
their  annual  ball  and  volunteer  concert,  and  had 
announced  that  it  would  eclipse  every  other  annual 
ball  in  the  history  of  the  hotel.  As  the  Hotel 
Salisbury  had  been  only  two  years  in  existence, 
this  was  not  an  idle  boast,  and  it  had  the  effect  of 
inducing  many  people  to  buy  the  tickets,  which 
sold  at  a  dollar  apiece,  and  were  good  for  "one 
gent  and  a  lady,"  and  entitled  the  bearer  to  a 
hat-check  without  extra  charge. 

In  the  flutter  of  preparation  all  ranks  were  tem 
porarily  levelled,  and  social  barriers  taken  down 
with  the  mutual  consent  of  those  separated  by 
them;  the  night-clerk  so  far  unbent  as  to  person 
ally  request  the  colored  hall-boy  Number  Eight  to 
play  a  banjo-solo  at  the  concert,  which  was  to  fill 
in  the  pauses  between  the  dances,  and  the  chamber 
maids  timidly  consulted  with  the  lady  telegraph- 
operator  and  the  lady  in  charge  of  the  telephone, 
as  to  whether  or  not  they  intended  to  wear  hats. 

From  "  Cinderella  and  Other  Steries."     Copyright,  1898.  by  Charles  Scribner's  Sons. 


Cinderella 

And  so  every  employee  on  every  floor  of  the 
hotel  was  working  individually  for  the  success  of 
the  ball,  from  the  engineers  in  charge  of  the  elec 
tric-light  plant  in  the  cellar  to  the  night-watchman 
on  the  ninth  story,  and  the  elevator-boys,  who  be 
longed  to  no  floor  in  particular. 

Miss  Celestine  Terrell,  who  was  Mrs.  Grahame 
West  in  private  life,  and  young  Grahame  West, 
who  played  the  part  opposite  to  hers  in  the  Gilbert 
and  Sullivan  Opera  that  was  then  in  the  third 
month  of  its  New  York  run,  were  among  the  hon 
ored  patrons  of  the  Hotel  Salisbury.  Miss  Ter 
rell,  in  her  utter  inability  to  adjust  the  American 
coinage  to  English  standards,  and  also  in  the  kind 
ness  of  her  heart,  had  given  too  generous  tips  to 
all  of  the  hotel  waiters,  and  some  of  this  money 
had  passed  into  the  gallery  window  of  the  Broad 
way  Theatre,  where  the  hotel  waiters  had  heard 
her  sing  and  seen  her  dance,  and  had  failed  to 
recognize  her  young  husband  in  the  Lord  Chan 
cellor's  wig  and  black  silk  court-dress.  So  they 
knew  that  she  was  a  celebrated  personage,  and  they 
urged  the  maitre  d' hot  el  to  invite  her  to  the  ball, 
and  then  persuade  her  to  take  a  part  in  their  vol 
unteer  concert. 

Paul,  the  head-waiter,  or  "Pierrot,"  as  Grahame 
West  called  him,  because  it  was  shorter,  as  he  ex 
plained,  hovered  over  the  two  young  English  peo- 

66 


Cinderella 

pie  one  night  at  supper,  and  served  them  lavishly 
with  his  own  hands. 

"Miss  Terrell,"  said  Paul,  nervously — "I  beg 
pardon,  Madam,  Mrs.  Grahame  West,  I  should 
say — I  would  like  to  make  an  invitation  to  you." 

Celestine  looked  at  her  husband  inquiringly, 
and  bowed  her  head  for  Paul  to  continue. 

"The  employees  of  the  Salisbury  give  the  an 
nual  ball  and  concert  on  the  sixteenth  of  Decem 
ber,  and  the  committee  have  inquired  and  request 
ed  of  me,  on  account  of  your  kindness,  to  ask  you 
would  you  be  so  polite  as  to  sing  a  little  song  for 
us  at  the  night  of  our  ball?" 

The  head-waiter  drew  a  long  breath  and 
straightened  himself  with  a  sense  of  relief  at  hav 
ing  done  his  part,  whether  the  Grahame  Wests 
did  theirs  or  not. 

As  a  rule,  Miss  Terrell  did  not  sing  in  private, 
and  had  only  broken  this  rule  twice,  when  the 
inducements  which  led  her  to  do  so  were  forty 
pounds  for  each  performance,  and  the  fact  that 
her  beloved  Princess  of  Wales  was  to  be  present. 
So  she  hesitated  for  an  instant. 

"Why,  you  are  very  good,"  she  said,  doubt 
fully.  "Will  there  be  any  other  people  there — 
anyone  not  an  employee,  I  mean?" 

Paul  misunderstood  her  and  became  a  servant 
again. 

67 


Cinderella 

"No,  I  am  afraid  there  will  be  only  the  em 
ployees,  Madam,"  he  said. 

"Oh,  then,  I  should  be  very  glad  to  come,"  mur 
mured  Celcstinc,  sweetly.  "But  I  never  sing  out  of 
the  theatre,  so  you  mustn't  mind  if  it  is  not  good." 

The  head-waiter  played  a  violent  tattoo  on  the 
back  of  the  chair  in  his  delight,  and  balanced  and 
bowed. 

"Ah,  we  are  very  proud  and  pleased  that  we 
can  induce  Madam  to  make  so  great  exceptions," 
he  declared.  "The  committee  will  be  most  happy. 
We  will  send  a  carriage  for  Madam,  and  a  bou 
quet  for  Madam  also,"  he  added,  grandly,  as  one 
who  was  not  to  be  denied  the  etiquette  to  which 
he  plainly  showed  he  was  used. 

"Will  we  come?"  cried  Van  Bibber,  incredu 
lously,  as  he  and  Travers  sat  watching  Grahame 
make  up  in  his  dressing-room.  "I  should  say  we 
would  come.  And  you  must  all  take  supper  with 
us  first,  and  we  will  get  Letty  Chamberlain  from 
the  Gaiety  Company  and  Lester  to  come,  too,  and 
make  them  each  do  a  turn." 

"And  we  can  dance  on  the  floor  ourselves,  can't 
we?"  asked  Grahame  West,  "as  they  do  at  home 
Christmas-eve  in  the  servants'  hall,  when  her  lady 
ship  dances  in  the  same  set  with  the  butler,  and  the 
men  waltz  with  the  cook." 

68 


Cinderella 

"Well,  over  here,"  said  Van  Bibber,  "you'll 
have  to  be  careful  that  you're  properly  presented 
to  the  cook  first,  or  she'll  appeal  to  the  floor  com 
mittee  and  have  you  thrown  out." 

"The  interesting  thing  about  that  ball,"  said 
Travers,  as  he  and  Van  Bibber  walked  home  that 
night,  "is  the  fact  that  those  hotel  people  are  get 
ting  a  galaxy  of  stars  to  amuse  them  for  nothing 
who  wouldn't  exhibit  themselves  at  a  Fifth  Ave 
nue  dance  for  all  the  money  in  Wall  Street.  And 
the  joke  of  it  is  going  to  be  that  the  servants  will 
vastly  prefer  the  banjo-solo  by  hall-boy  Number 
Eight." 

Lyric  Hall  lies  just  this  side  of  the  Forty- 
second  Street  station  along  the  line  of  the  Sixth 
Avenue  Elevated  road,  and  you  can  look  into 
its  windows  from  the  passing  train.  It  was  after 
one  o'clock  when  the  invited  guests  and  their 
friends  pushed  open  the  storm-doors  and  were  rec 
ognized  by  the  anxious  committee-men  who  were 
taking  tickets  at  the  top  of  the  stairs.  The  com 
mittee-men  fled  in  different  directions,  shouting  for 
Mr.  Paul,  and  Mr.  Paul  arrived  beaming  with 
delight  and  moisture,  and  presented  a  huge  bou 
quet  to  Mrs.  West,  and  welcomed  her  friends  with 
hospitable  warmth. 

Mrs.  West  and  Miss  Chamberlain  took  off  their 
hats  and  the  men  gave  up  their  coats,  not  with- 

69 


Cinderella 

out  misgivings,  to  a  sleepy  young  man  who  said 
pleasantly,,  as  he  dragged  them  into  the  coat-room 
window,  "that  they  would  be  playing  in  great  luck 
if  they  ever  saw  them  again." 

"I  don't  need  to  give  you  no  checks,"  he  ex 
plained;  "just  ask  for  the  coats  with  real  fur  on 
'em.  Nobody  else  has  any." 

There  was  a  balcony  overhanging  the  floor,  and 
the  invited  guests  were  escorted  to  it,  and  given 
seats  where  they  could  look  down  upon  the  dancers 
below,  and  the  committee-men,  in  dangling  badges 
with  edges  of  silver  fringe,  stood  behind  their 
chairs  and  poured  out  champagne  for  them  lav 
ishly,  and  tore  up  the  wine-check  which  the  bar 
keeper  brought  with  it,  with  princely  hospitality. 

The  entrance  of  the  invited  guests  created  but 
small  interest,  and  neither  the  beauty  of  the  two 
English  girls  nor  Lester's  well-known  features, 
which  smiled  from  shop-windows  and  on  every 
ash-barrel  in  the  New  York  streets,  aroused  any 
particular  comment.  The  employees  were  much 
more  occupied  with  the  Lancers  then  in  progress 
and  with  the  joyful  actions  of  one  of  their  number 
who  was  playing  blind-man's-buff  with  himself, 
and  swaying  from  set  to  set  in  search  of  his  part 
ner,  who  had  given  him  up  as  hopeless  and  retired 
to  the  supper-room  for  crackers  and  beer. 

Some  of  the  ladies  wore  bonnets,  and  others 
70 


Cinderella 

wore  flowers  in  their  hair,  and  a  half-dozen  were 
in  gowns  which  were  obviously  intended  for  dan 
cing  and  nothing  else.  But  none  of  them  were  in 
decollete  gowns.  A  few  wore  gloves.  They  had 
copied  the  fashions  of  their  richer  sisters  with  the 
intuitive  taste  of  the  American  girl  of  their  class, 
and  they  waltzed  quite  as  well  as  the  ladies  whose 
dresses  they  copied,  and  many  of  them  were  ex 
ceedingly  pretty.  The  costumes  of  the  gentlemen 
varied  from  the  clothes  they  wore  nightly  when 
waiting  on  the  table,  to  cutaway  coats  with  white 
satin  ties,  and  the  regular  blue  and  brass-buttoned 
uniform  of  the  hotel. 

"I  am  going  to  dance,"  said  Van  Bibber,  "if 
Mr.  Pierrot  will  present  me  to  one  of  the  ladies." 

Paul  introduced  him  to  a  lady  in  a  white  cheese 
cloth  dress  and  black  walking-shoes,  with  whom 
no  one  else  would  dance,  and  the  musicians  struck 
up  "The  Band  Played  On,"  and  they  launched 
out  upon  a  slippery  floor. 

Van  Bibber  was  conscious  that  his  friends  were 
applauding  him  in  dumb  show  from  the  balcony, 
and  when  his  partner  asked  who  they  were,  he  re 
pudiated  them  altogether,  and  said  he  could  not 
imagine,  but  that  he  guessed  from  their  bad  man 
ners  they  were  professional  entertainers  hired  for 
the  evening. 

The  music  stopped  abruptly,  and  as  he  saw  Mrs. 


Cinderella 

West  leaving  the  balcony,  he  knew  that  his  turn 
had  come,  and  as  she  passed  him  he  applauded 
her  vociferously,  and  as  no  one  else  applauded 
even  slightly,  she  grew  very  red. 

Her  friends  knew  that  they  formed  the  audi 
ence  which  she  dreaded,  and  she  knew  that  they 
were  rejoicing  in  her  embarrassment,  which  the 
head  of  the  downstairs  department,  as  Mr.  Paul 
described  him,  increased  to  an  hysterical  point  by 
introducing  her  as  "Miss  Ellen  Terry,  the  great 
English  actress,  who  would  now  oblige  with  a 
song." 

The  man  had  seen  the  name  of  the  wonderful 
English  actress  on  the  bill-boards  in  front  of  Ab 
bey's  Theatre,  and  he  had  been  told  that  Miss 
Terrell  was  English,  and  confused  the  two  names. 
As  he  passed  Van  Bibber  he  drew  his  waistcoat 
into  shape  with  a  proud  shrug  of  his  shoulders, 
and  said,  anxiously,  "I  gave  your  friend  a  good 
introduction,  anyway,  didn't  I?" 

"You  did,  indeed,"  Van  Bibber  answered. 
"You  couldn't  have  surprised  her  more;  and  it 
made  a  great  hit  with  me,  too." 

No  one  in  the  room  listened  to  the  singing.  The 
gentlemen  had  crossed  their  legs  comfortably  and 
were  expressing  their  regret  to  their  partners  that 
so  much  time  was  wasted  in  sandwiching  songs 
between  the  waltzes,  and  the  ladies  were  engaged 

72 


Cinderella 

in  criticising  Celestine's  hair,  which  she  wore  in 
a  bun.  They  thought  that  it  might  be  English, 
but  it  certainly  was  not  their  idea  of  good  style. 

Celestine  was  conscious  of  the  fact  that  her  hus 
band  and  Lester  were  hanging  far  over  the  bal 
cony,  holding  their  hands  to  their  eyes  as  though 
they  were  opera-glasses,  and  exclaiming  with  ad 
miration  and  delight;  and  when  she  had  finished 
the  first  verse,  they  pretended  to  think  that  the 
song  was  over,  and  shouted,  "Bravo,  encore !"  and 
applauded  frantically,  and  then,  apparently  over 
come  with  confusion  at  their  mistake,  sank  back 
entirely  from  sight. 

"I  think  Miss  Terrell's  an  elegant  singer,"  Van 
Bibber's  partner  said  to  him.  "I  seen  her  at  the 
hotel  frequently.  She  has  such  a  pleasant  way 
with  her,  quite  lady-like.  She's  the  only  actress 
I  ever  saw  that  has  retained  her  timidity.  She  acts 
as  though  she  were  shy,  don't  she?" 

Van  Bibber,  who  had  spent  a  month  on  the 
Thames  the  summer  before  with  the  Grahame 
Wests,  surveyed  Celestine  with  sudden  interest,  as 
though  he  had  never  seen  her  before  until  that 
moment,  and  agreed  that  she  did  look  shy,  one 
might  almost  say  frightened  to  death.  Mrs.  West 
rushed  through  the  second  verse  of  the  song,  bowed 
breathlessly,  and  ran  down  the  steps  of  the  stage 
and  back  to  the  refuge  of  the  balcony,  while  the 

73 


Cinderella 

audience  applauded  with  perfunctory  politeness 
and  called  clamorously  to  the  musicians  to  "Let 
her  go!" 

"And  that  is  the  song,"  commented  Van  Bibber, 
"that  gets  six  encores  and  three  calls  every  night 
on  Broadway!" 

Grahame  West  affected  to  be  greatly  chagrined 
at  his  wife's  failure  to  charm  the  chambermaids 
and  porters  with  her  little  love-song,  and  when 
his  turn  came,  he  left  them  with  alacrity,  assuring 
them  that  they  would  now  see  the  difference,  as 
he  would  sing  a  song  better  suited  to  their  level. 

But  the  song  that  had  charmed  London  and 
captured  the  unprotected  coast-town  of  New  York, 
fell  on  heedless  ears;  and,  except  the  evil  ones  in 
the  gallery,  no  one  laughed  and  no  one  listened, 
and  Lester  declared  with  tears  in  his  eyes  that  he 
would  not  go  through  such  an  ordeal  for  the  re 
ceipts  of  an  Actors'  Fund  Benefit. 

Van  Bibber's  partner  caught  him  laughing  at 
Grahame  West's  vain  efforts  to  amuse,  and  said, 
tolerantly,  that  Mr.  West  was  certainly  comical, 
but  that  she  had  a  lady  friend  with  her  who  could 
recite  pieces  which  were  that  comic  that  you'd  die 
of  laughing.  She  presented  her  friend  to  Van  Bib 
ber,  and  he  said  he  hoped  that  they  were  going 
to  hear  her  recite,  as  laughing  must  be  a  pleasant 
death.  But  the  young  lady  explained  that  she  btd 

74 


Cinderella 

had  the  misfortune  to  lose  her  only  brother  that 
summer,  and  that  she  had  given  up  everything  but 
dancing  in  consequence.  She  said  she  did  not  think 
it  looked  right  to  see  a  girl  in  mourning  recite 
comic  monologues. 

Van  Bibber  struggled  to  be  sympathetic,  and 
asked  what  her  brother  had  died  of.  She  told 
him  that  "he  died  of  a  Thursday,"  and  the  con 
versation  came  to  an  embarrassing  pause. 

Van  Bibber's  partner  had  another  friend  in  a 
gray  corduroy  waistcoat  and  tan  shoes,  who  was 
of  Hebraic  appearance.  He  also  wore  several 
very  fine  rings,  and  officiated  with  what  was  cer 
tainly  religious  tolerance  at  the  M.  E.  Bethel 
Church.  She  said  he  was  an  elegant  or — gan — ist, 
putting  the  emphasis  on  the  second  syllable,  which 
made  Van  Bibber  think  that  she  was  speaking  of 
some  religious  body  to  which  he  belonged.  But 
the  organist  made  his  profession  clear  by  explain 
ing  that  the  committee  had  just  invited  him  to 
oblige  the  company  with  a  solo  on  the  piano,  but 
that  he  had  been  hitting  the  champagne  so  hard 
that  he  doubted  if  he  could  tell  the  keys  from  the 
pedals,  and  he  added  that  if  they'd  excuse  him  he 
would  go  to  sleep,  which  he  immediately  did  with 
his  head  on  the  shoulder  of  the  lady  recitation- 
ist,  who  tactfully  tried  not  to  notice  that  he  was 
there. 

75 


Cinderella 

They  were  all  waltzing  again,  and  as  Van  Bib 
ber  guided  his  partner  for  a  second  time  around 
the  room,  he  noticed  a  particularly  handsome  girl 
in  a  walking-dress,  who  was  doing  some  sort  of 
a  fancy  step  with  a  solemn,  grave-faced  young 
man  in  the  hotel  livery.  They  seemed  by  their 
manner  to  know  each  other  very  well,  and  they 
had  apparently  practised  the  step  that  they  were 
doing  often  before. 

The  girl  was  much  taller  than  the  man,  and  was 
superior  to  him  in  every  way.  Her  movements 
were  freer  and  less  conscious,  and  she  carried  her 
head  and  shoulders  as  though  she  had  never  bent 
them  above  a  broom.  Her  complexion  was  soft 
and  her  hair  of  the  finest,  deepest  auburn.  Among 
all  the  girls  upon  the  floor  she  was  the  most  re 
markable,  even  if  her  dancing  had  not  immediately 
distinguished  her. 

The  step  which  she  and  her  partner  were  ex 
hibiting  was  one  that  probably  had  been  taught 
her  by  a  professor  of  dancing  at  some  East  Side 
academy,  at  the  rate  of  fifty  cents  per  hour,  and 
which  she  no  doubt  believed  was  the  latest  step 
danced  in  the  gilded  halls  of  the  Few  Hundred. 
In  this  waltz  the  two  dancers  held  each  other's 
hands,  and  the  man  swung  his  partner  behind  him, 
and  then  would  turn  and  take  up  the  step  with 
her  where  they  had  dropped  it;  or  they  swung 

76 


Cinderella 

around  and  around  each  other  several  times,  as 
people  do  in  fancy  skating,  and  sometimes  he  spun 
her  so  quickly  one  way  that  the  skirt  of  her  walk 
ing-dress  was  wound  as  tightly  around  her  legs 
and  ankles  as  a  cord  around  a  top,  and  then  as  he 
swung  her  in  the  opposite  direction,  it  unwound 
again,  and  wrapped  about  her  from  the  other  side. 
They  varied  this  when  it  pleased  them  with  bal 
ancings  and  steps  and  posturings  that  were  not  suf 
ficiently  extravagant  to  bring  any  comment  from 
the  other  dancers,  but  which  were  so  full  of  grace 
and  feeling  for  time  and  rhythm,  that  Van  Bibber 
continually  reversed  his  partner  so  that  he  might 
not  for  an  instant  lose  sight  of  the  girl  with  auburn 
hair. 

"She  is  a  very  remarkable  dancer,"  he  said  at 
last,  apologetically.  "Do  you  know  who  she  is?" 

His  partner  had  observed  his  interest  with  in 
creasing  disapproval,  and  she  smiled  triumphantly 
now  at  the  chance  that  his  question  gave  her. 

"She  is  the  seventh-floor  chambermaid,"  she 
said.  "I,"  she  added  in  a  tone  which  marked  the 
social  superiority,  "am  a  checker  and  marker." 

"Really?"  said  Van  Bibber,  with  a  polite  accent 
of  proper  awe. 

He  decided  that  he  must  see  more  of  this  Cin 
derella  of  the  Hotel  Salisbury;  and  dropping  his 
partner  by  the  side  of  the  lady  recitationist,  he 

77 


Cinderella 

bowed  his  thanks  and  hurried  to  the  gallery  for 
a  better  view. 

When  he  reached  it  he  found  his  professional 
friends  hanging  over  the  railing,  watching  every 
movement  which  the  girl  made  with  an  intense 
and  unaffected  interest. 

"Have  you  noticed  that  girl  with  red  hair?"  he 
asked,  as  he  pulled  up  a  chair  beside  them. 

But  they  only  nodded  and  kept  their  eyes  fast 
ened  on  the  opening  in  the  crowd  through  which 
she  had  disappeared. 

"There  she  is !"  Grahame  West  cried,  excitedly, 
as  the  girl  swept  out  from  the  mass  of  dancers  into 
the  clear  space.  "Now  you  can  see  what  I  mean, 
Celestine,"  he  said.  "Where  he  turns  her  like  that. 
We  could  do  it  in  the  shadow-dance  in  the  second 
act.  It's  very  pretty.  She  lets  go  his  right  hand 
and  then  he  swings  her  and  balances  backward  un 
til  she  takes  up  the  step  again,  when  she  faces  him. 
It  is  very  simple  and  very  effective.  Isn't  it, 
George  ?" 

Lester  nodded  and  said,  "Yes,  very.  She's  a 
born  dancer.  You  can  teach  people  steps,  but  you 
can't  teach  them  to  be  graceful." 

"She  reminds  me  of  Sylvia  Grey,"  said  Miss 
Chamberlain.  "There's  nothing  violent  about  it, 
or  faked,  is  there?  It's  just  the  poetry  of  motion, 
without  any  tricks." 

78 


Cinderella 

Lester,  who  was  a  trick-dancer  himself,  and 
Grahame  West,  who  was  one  of  the  best  eccen 
tric  dancers  in  England,  assented  to  this  cheer 
fully. 

Van  Bibber  listened  to  the  comments  of  the 
authorities  and  smiled  grimly.  The  contrast  which 
their  lives  presented  to  that  of  the  young  girl  whom 
they  praised  so  highly,  struck  him  as  being  most 
interesting.  Here  were  two  men  who  had  made 
comic  dances  a  profound  and  serious  study,  and 
the  two  women  who  had  lifted  dancing  to  the 
plane  of  a  fine  art,  all  envying  and  complimenting 
a  girl  who  was  doing  for  her  own  pleasure  that 
which  was  to  them  hard  work  and  a  livelihood. 
But  while  they  were  going  back  the  next  day  to 
be  applauded  and  petted  and  praised  by  a  friendly 
public,  she  was  to  fly  like  Cinderella,  to  take  up 
her  sweeping  and  dusting  and  the  making  of  beds, 
and  the  answering  of  peremptory  summonses  from 
electric  buttons. 

"A  good  teacher  could  make  her  worth  one  hun 
dred  dollars  a  week  in  six  lessons,"  said  Lester, 
dispassionately.  "I'd  be  willing  to  make  her  an 
offer  myself,  if  I  hadn't  too  many  dancers  in  the 
piece  already." 

"A  hundred  dollars — that's  twenty  pounds," 
said  Mrs.  Grahame  West.  "You  do  pay  such 
prices  over  here!  But  I  quite  agree  that  she  is 

79 


Cinderella 

very  graceful;  and  she  is  so  unconscious,  too,  isn't 
she?" 

The  interest  in  Cinderella  ceased  when  the 
waltzing  stopped,  and  the  attention  of  those  in 
the  gallery  was  riveted  with  equal  intensity  upon 
Miss  Chamberlain  and  Travers,  who  had  faced 
each  other  in  a  quadrille,  Miss  Chamberlain  hav 
ing  accepted  the  assistant  barkeeper  for  a  partner, 
while  Travers  contented  himself  with  a  tall,  elder 
ly  female,  who  in  business  hours  had  entire  charge 
of  the  linen  department.  The  barkeeper  was  a 
melancholy  man  with  a  dyed  mustache,  and  when 
he  asked  the  English  dancer  from  what  hotel  she 
came,  and  she,  thinking  he  meant  at  what  hotel 
was  she  stopping,  told  him,  he  said  that  that  was 
a  slow  place,  and  that  if  she  would  let  him  know 
when  she  had  her  night  off,  he  would  be  pleased  to 
meet  her  at  the  Twenty-third  Street  station  of  the 
Sixth  Avenue  road  on  the  uptown  side,  and  would 
take  her  to  the  theatre,  for  which,  he  explained, 
he  was  able  to  obtain  tickets  for  nothing,  as  so 
many  men  gave  him  their  return  checks  for  drinks. 

Miss  Chamberlain  told  him  in  return  that  she 
just  doted  on  the  theatre,  and  promised  to  meet 
him  the  very  next  evening.  She  sent  him  anony 
mously  instead  two  seats  in  the  front  row  for  her 
performance.  She  had  much  delight  the  next  night 

80 


Cinderella 

in  watching  his  countenance  when,  after  arriving 
somewhat  late  and  cross,  he  recognized  the  radiant 
beauty  on  the  stage  as  the  young  person  with  whom 
he  had  condescended  to  dance. 

When  the  quadrille  was  over  she  introduced  him 
to  Travers,  and  Travers  told  him  he  mixed  drinks 
at  the  Knickerbocker  Club,  and  that  his  greatest 
work  was  a  Van  Bibber  cocktail.  And  when  the 
barkeeper  asked  for  the  recipe  and  promised  to 
"push  it  along,"  Travers  told  him  he  never  made 
it  twice  the  same,  as  it  depended  entirely  on  his 
mood. 

Mrs.  Grahame  West  and  Lester  were  scandal 
ized  at  the  conduct  of  these  two  young  people  and 
ordered  the  party  home,  and  as  the  dance  was 
growing  somewhat  noisy  and  the  gentlemen  were 
smoking  as  they  danced,  the  invited  guests  made 
their  bows  to  Mr.  Paul  and  went  out  into  cold, 
silent  streets,  followed  by  the  thanks  and  compli 
ments  of  seven  bare-headed  and  swaying  commit 
tee-men. 

The  next  week  Lester  went  on  the  road  with 
his  comic  opera  company;  the  Grahame  Wests 
sailed  to  England;  Letty  Chamberlain  and  the 
other  "Gee  Gees,"  as  Travers  called  the  Gaiety 
Girls,  departed  for  Chicago,  and  Travers  and 
Van  Bibber  were  left  alone. 

81 


Cinderella 

The  annual  ball  was  a  month  in  the  past  when 
Van  Bibber  found  Travers  at  breakfast  at  their 
club,  and  dropped  into  a  chair  beside  him  with  a 
sigh  of  weariness  and  indecision. 

"What's  the  trouble?  Have  some  breakfast?" 
said  Travers,  cheerfully. 

"Thank  you,  no,"  said  Van  Bibber,  gazing  at 
his  friend  doubtfully;  "I  want  to  ask  you  what 
you  think  of  this.  Do  you  remember  that  girl  at 
that  servants'  ball?" 

"Which  girl? — Tall  girl  with  red  hair — did 
fancy  dance?  Yes — why?" 

"Well,  I've  been  thinking  about  her  lately,"  said 
Van  Bibber,  "and  what  they  said  of  her  dancing. 
It  seems  to  me  that  if  it's  as  good  as  they  thought 
it  was,  the  girl  ought  to  be  told  of  it  and  encour 
aged.  They  evidently  meant  what  they  said.  It 
wasn't  as  though  they  were  talking  about  her  to 
her  relatives  and  had  to  say  something  pleasant. 
Lester  thought  she  could  make  a  hundred  dollars 
a  week  if  she  had  had  six  lessons.  Well,  six  les 
sons  wouldn't  cost  much,  not  more  than  ten  dollars 
at  the  most,  and  a  hundred  a  week  for  an  original 
outlay  of  ten  is  a  good  investment." 

Travers  nodded  his  head  in  assent,  and  whacked 
an  egg  viciously  with  his  spoon.  "What's  your 
scheme?"  he  said.  "Is  your  idea  to  help  the  lady 
for  her  own  sake — sort  of  a  philanthropic  snap — 

82 


Cinderella 

or  as  a  speculation?  We  might  make  it  pay  as  a 
speculation.  You  see  nobody  knows  about  her 
except  you  and  me.  We  might  form  her  into  a 
sort  of  stock  company  and  teach  her  to  dance,  and 
secure  her  engagements  and  then  take  our  com 
mission  out  of  her  salary.  Is  that  what  you  were 
thinking  of  doing?" 

"No,  that  was  not  my  idea,"  said  Van  Bibber, 
smiling.  "I  hadn't  any  plan.  I  just  thought  I'd 
go  down  to  that  hotel  and  tell  her  that  in  the 
opinion  of  the  four  people  best  qualified  to  know 
what  good  dancing  is,  she  is  a  good  dancer,  and 
then  leave  the  rest  to  her.  She  must  have  some 
friends  or  relations  who  would  help  her  to  make 
a  start.  If  it's  true  that  she  can  make  a  hit  as  a 
dancer,  it  seems  a  pity  that  she  shouldn't  know  it, 
doesn't  it?  If  she  succeeded,  she'd  make  a  pot  of 
money,  and  if  she  failed,  she'd  be  just  where  she 
is  now." 

Travers  considered  this  subject  deeply,  with 
knit  brows. 

"That's  so,"  he  said.  "I'll  tell  you  what  let's 
do.  Let's  go  see  some  of  the  managers  of  those 
continuous  performance  places,  and  tell  them  we 
have  a  dark  horse  that  the  Grahame  Wests  and 
Letty  Chamberlain  herself  and  George  Lester 
think  is  the  coming  dancer  of  the  age,  and  ask 
them  to  give  her  a  chance.  And  we'll  make  some 


Cinderella 

sort  of  a  contract  with  them.  We  ought  to  fix  it 
so  that  she  is  to  get  bigger  money  the  longer  they 
keep  her  in  the  bill,  have  her  salary  on  a  rising 
scale.  Come  on,"  he  exclaimed,  warming  to  the 
idea.  "Let's  go  now.  What  have  you  got  to 
do?" 

"I've  got  nothing  better  to  do  than  just  that," 
Van  Bibber  declared,  briskly. 

The  managers  whom  they  interviewed  were  in 
terested  but  non-committal.  They  agreed  that  the 
girl  must  be  a  remarkable  dancer  indeed  to  war 
rant  such  praise  from  such  authorities,  but  they 
wanted  to  see  her  and  judge  for  themselves,  and 
they  asked  to  be  given  her  address,  which  the  im 
presarios  refused  to  disclose.  But  they  secured 
from  the  managers  the  names  of  several  men  who 
taught  fancy  dancing,  and  who  prepared  aspirants 
for  the  vaudeville  stage,  and  having  obtained  from 
them  their  prices  and  their  opinion  as  to  how  long 
a  time  would  be  required  to  give  the  finishing 
touches  to  a  dancer  already  accomplished  in  the 
art,  they  directed  their  steps  to  the  Hotel  Salis 
bury. 

"  'From  the  Seventh  Story  to  the  Stage,'  "  said 
Travers.  "She  will  make  very  good  newspaper 
paragraphs,  won't  she?  'The  New  American 
Dancer,  indorsed  by  Celestine  Terrell,  Letty 
Chamberlain,  and  Cortlandt  Van  Bibber.'  And 

84 


Cinderella 

we  could  get  her  outside  engagements  to  dance  at 
studios  and  evening  parties  after  her  regular  per 
formance,  couldn't  we?"  he  continued.  "She 
ought  to  ask  from  fifty  to  a  hundred  dollars  a 
night.  With  her  regular  salary  that  would  aver 
age  about  three  hundred  and  fifty  a  week.  She  is 
probably  making  three  dollars  a  week  now,  and 
eats  in  the  servants'  hall." 

"And  then  we  will  send  her  abroad,"  interrupt 
ed  Van  Bibber,  taking  up  the  tale,  "and  she  will 
do  the  music-halls  in  London.  If  she  plays  three 
halls  a  night,  say  one  on  the  Surrey  Side,  and 
Islington,  and  a  smart  West  End  hall  like  the 
Empire  or  the  Alhambra,  at  fifteen  guineas  a  turn, 
that  would  bring  her  in  five  hundred  and  twenty- 
five  dollars  a  week.  And  then  she  would  go  to  the 
Folies  Bergere  in  Paris,  and  finally  to  St.  Peters 
burg  and  Milan,  and  then  come  back  to  dance  in 
the  Grand  Opera  season,  under  Gus  Harris,  with 
a  great  international  reputation,  and  hung  with 
flowers  and  medals  and  diamond  sunbursts  and 
things." 

"Rather,"  said  Travers,  shaking  his  head  en 
thusiastically.  "And  after  that  we  must  invent  a 
new  dance  for  her,  with  colored  lights  and  mechan 
ical  snaps  and  things,  and  have  it  patented;  and 
finally  she  will  get  her  picture  on  soda-cracker 
boxes  and  cigarette  advertisements,  and  have  a 

85 


Cinderella 

race-horse  named  after  her,  and  give  testimonials 
for  nerve-tonics  and  soap.  Does  fame  reach  far 
ther  than  that?" 

"I  think  not,"  said  Van  Bibber,  "unless  they 
give  her  name  to  a  new  make  of  bicycle.  We  must 
give  her  a  new  name,  anyway,  and  rechristen  her, 
whatever  her  name  may  be.  We'll  call  her  Cin 
derella — La  Cinderella.  That  sounds  fine,  doesn't 
it,  even  if  it  is  rather  long  for  the  very  largest 
type."  ^ 

"It  isn't  much  longer  than  Carmencita,"  sug 
gested  the  other.  "And  people  who  have  the 
proud  knowledge  of  knowing  her  like  you  and  me 
will  call  her  'Cinders'  for  short.  And  when  we 
read  of  her  dancing  before  the  Czar  of  All  the 
Russias,  and  leading  the  ballet  at  the  Grand  Op 
era  House  in  Paris,  we'll  say,  'that  is  our  handi 
work,*  and  we  will  feel  that  we  have  not  lived  in 


vain." 


"Seventh  floor,  please,"  said  Van  Bibber  to  the 
elevator-boy. 

The  elevator-boy  was  a  young  man  of  serious 
demeanor,  with  a  smooth-shaven  face  and  a  square, 
determined  jaw.  There  was  something  about  him 
which  seemed  familiar,  but  Van  Bibber  could  not 
determine  just  what  it  was.  The  elevator  stopped 
to  allow  some  people  to  leave  it  at  the  second 

86 


Cinderella 

floor,  and  as  the  young  man  shoved  the  door  to 
again,  Van  Bibber  asked  him  if  he  happened  to 
know  of  a  chambermaid  with  red  hair — a  tall  girl 
on  the  seventh  floor,  a  girl  who  danced  very 
well. 

The  wire  rope  of  the  elevator  slipped  less  rapid 
ly  through  the  hands  of  the  young  man  who  con 
trolled  it,  and  he  turned  and  fixed  his  eyes  with 
sudden  interest  on  Van  Bibber's  face,  and  scru 
tinized  him  and  his  companion  with  serious  con 
sideration. 

"Yes,  I  know  her — I  know  who  you  mean,  any 
way,"  he  said.  "Why?" 

"Why?"  echoed  Van  Bibber,  raising  his  eyes. 
"We  wish  to  see  her  on  a  matter  of  business.  Can 
you  tell  me  her  name?" 

The  elevator  was  running  so  slowly  now  that 
*;ts  movement  upward  was  barely  perceptible. 

"Her  name's  Annie — Annie  Crehan.  Excuse 
me,"  said  the  young  man,  doubtfully,  "ain't  you 
the  young  fellows  who  came  to  our  ball  with  that 
English  lady,  the  one  that  sung?" 

"Yes,"  Van  Bibber  assented,  pleasantly.  "We 
were  there.  That's  where  I've  seen  you  before. 
You  were  there,  too,  weren't  you?" 

"Me  and  Annie  was  dancing  together  most  all 
the  evening.  I  seen  all  youse  watching  her." 

"Of  course,"  exclaimed  Van  Bibber.  "I  re- 
87 


Cinderella 

member  you  now.  Oh,  then  you  must  know  her 
quite  well.  Maybe  you  can  help  us.  We  want 
to  put  her  on  the  stage." 

The  elevator  came  to  a  stop  with  an  abrupt  jerk, 
and  the  young  man  shoved  his  hands  behind  him, 
and  leaned  back  against  one  of  the  mirrors  in  its 
side. 

"On  the  stage,"  he  repeated.     "Why?" 

Van  Bibber  smiled  and  shrugged  his  shoulders 
in  some  embarrassment  at  this  peremptory  chal 
lenge.  But  there  was  nothing  in  the  young  man's 
tone  or  manner  that  could  give  offence.  He 
seemed  much  in  earnest,  and  spoke  as  though  they 
must  understand  that  he  had  some  right  to  ques 
tion. 

"Why?  Because  of  her  dancing.  She  is  a  very 
remarkable  dancer.  All  of  those  actors  with  us 
that  night  said  so.  You  must  know  that  yourself 
better  than  anyone  else,  since  you  can  dance  with 
her.  She  could  make  quite  a  fortune  as  a  dancer, 
and  we  have  persuaded  several  managers  to  prom 
ise  to  give  her  a  trial.  And  if  she  needs  money 
to  pay  for  lessons,  or  to  buy  the  proper  dresses 
and  slippers  and  things,  we  are  willing  to  give  it 
to  her,  or  to  lend  it  to  her,  if  she  would  like  that 
better." 

"Why?"  repeated  the  young  man,  immovably. 
His  manner  was  not  encouraging. 

88 


Cinderella 

"Why — what?"  interrupted Travers, with  grow 
ing  impatience. 

"Why  are  you  willing  to  give  her  money?  You 
don't  know  her." 

Van  Bibber  looked  at  Travers,  and  Travers 
smiled  in  some  annoyance.  The  electric  bell  rang 
violently  from  different  floors,  but  the  young  man 
did  not  heed  it.  He  had  halted  the  elevator  be 
tween  two  landings,  and  he  now  seated  himself 
on  the  velvet  cushions  and  crossed  one  leg  over 
the  other,  as  though  for  a  protracted  debate. 
Travers  gazed  about  him  in  humorous  apprehen 
sion,  as  though  alarmed  at  the  position  in  which 
he  found  himself,  hung  as  it  were  between  the 
earth  and  sky. 

"I  swear  I  am  an  unarmed  man,"  he  said,  in  a 
whisper. 

"Our  intentions  are  well  meant,  I  assure  you," 
said  Van  Bibber,  with  an  amused  smile.  "The 
girl  is  working  ten  hours  a  day  for  very  little 
money,  isn't  she?  You  know  she  is,  when  she 
could  make  a  great  deal  of  money  by  working  half 
as  hard.  We  have  some  influence  with  theatrical 
people,  and  we  meant  merely  to  put  her  in  the  way 
of  bettering  her  position,  and  to  give  her  the 
chance  to  do  something  which  she  can  do  better 
€han  many  others,  while  almost  anyone,  I  take  it, 
can  sweep  and  make  beds.  If  she  were  properly 

89 


Cinderella 

managed,  she  could  become  a  great  dancer,  and 
delight  thousands  of  people — add  to  the  gayety 
of  nations,  as  it  were.  She's  hardly  doing  that 
now,  is  she?  Have  you  any  objections  to  that? 
What  right  have  you  to  make  objections,  any 
way?" 

The  young  man  regarded  the  two  young  gen 
tlemen  before  him  with  a  dogged  countenance,  but 
there  was  now  in  his  eyes  a  look  of  helplessness 
and  of  great  disquietude. 

"We're  engaged  to  be  married,  Annie  and  me," 
he  said.  "That's  it." 

"Oh,"  exclaimed  Van  Bibber,  "I  beg  your  par 
don.  That's  different.  Well,  in  that  case,  you 
can  help  us  very  much,  if  you  wish.  We  leave 
it  entirely  with  you!" 

"I  don't  want  that  you  should  leave  it  with 
me,"  said  the  young  man,  harshly.  "I  don't  wrant 
to  have  nothing  to  do  with  it.  Annie  can  speak 
for  herself.  I  knew  it  was  coming  to  this,"  he  said, 
leaning  forward  and  clasping  his  hands  together, 
"or  something  like  this.  I've  never  felt  dead  sure 
of  Annie,  never  once.  I  always  knew  something 
would  happen." 

"Why,  nothing  has  happened,"  said  Van  Bib 
ber,  soothingly.  "You  would  both  benefit  by  it. 
We  would  be  as  willing  to  help  two  as  one.  You 
would  both  be  better  off." 

90 


Cinderella 

The  young  man  raised  his  head  and  stared  at 
Van  Bibber  reprovingly. 

"You  know  better  than  that,"  he  said.  "You 
know  what  I'd  look  like.  Of  course  she  could 
make  money  as  a  dancer — I've  known  that  for 
some  time — but  she  hasn't  thought  of  it  yet,  and 
she'd  never  have  thought  of  it  herself.  But  the 
question  isn't  me  or  what  I  want.  It's  Annie.  Is 
she  going  to  be  happier  or  not,  that's  the  question. 
And  I'm  telling  you  that  she  couldn't  be  any  hap 
pier  than  she  is  now.  I  know  that,  too.  We're 
just  as  contented  as  two  folks  ever  was.  We've 
been  saving  for  three  months,  and  buying  furni 
ture  from  the  instalment  people,  and  next  month 
we  were  going  to  move  into  a  flat  on  Seventh  Ave 
nue,  quite  handy  to  the  hotel.  If  she  goes  onto 
the  stage  could  she  be  any  happier?  And  if  you're 
honest  in  saying  you're  thinking  of  the  two  of  us 
— I  ask  you  where  would  I  come  in  ?  I'll  be  pull 
ing  this  wire  rope  and  she'll  be  all  over  the  coun 
try,  and  her  friends  won't  be  my  friends  and  her 
ways  won't  be  my  ways.  She'll  get  out  of  reach 
of  me  in  a  week,  and  I  won't  be  in  it.  I'm  not  the 
sort  to  go  loafing  round  while  my  wife  supports 
me,  carrying  her  satchel  for  her.  And  there's 
nothing  I  can  do  but  just  this.  She'd  come  back 
here  some  day  and  live  in  the  front  floor  suite,  and 
I'd  pull  her  up  and  down  in  this  elevator.  That's 

QI 


Cinderella 

what  will  happen.  Here's  what  you  two  gentle 
men  are  doing."  The  young  man  leaned  forward 
eagerly.  "You're  offering  a  change  to  two  people 
that  are  as  well  off  now  as  they  ever  hope  to  be, 
and  they're  contented.  We  don't  know  nothin' 
better.  Now,  are  you  dead  sure  that  you're  giving 
us  something  better  than  what  we've  got?  You 
can't  make  me  any  happier  than  I  am,  and  as  far 
as  Annie  knows,  up  to  now,  she  couldn't  be  better 
fixed,  and  no  one  could  care  for  her  more. 

"My  God !  gentlemen,"  he  cried,  desperately, 
"think!  She's  all  I've  got.  There's  lots  of  dan 
cers,  but  she's  not  a  dancer  to  me,  she's  just  Annie. 
I  don't  want  her  to  delight  the  gayety  of  nations. 
I  want  her  for  myself.  Maybe  I'm  selfish,  but  I 
can't  help  that.  She's  mine,  and  you're  trying  to 
take  her  away  from  me.  Suppose  she  was  your 
girl,  and  someone  was  sneaking  her  away  from 
you.  You'd  try  to  stop  it,  wouldn't  you,  if  she 
was  all  you  had?"  He  stopped  breathlessly  and 
stared  alternately  from  one  to  the  other  of  the 
young  men  before  him.  Their  countenances 
showed  an  expression  of  well-bred  concern. 

"It's  for  you  to  judge,"  he  went  on,  helplessly; 
"if  you  want  to  take  the  responsibility,  well  and 
good,  that's  for  you  to  say.  I'm  not  stopping 
you,  but  she's  all  I've  got." 

The  young  man  stopped,  and  there  was  a  pause 
92 


Cinderella 

while  he  eyed  them  eagerly.  The  elevator-bell 
rang  out  again  with  vicious  indignation. 

Travers  struck  at  the  toe  of  his  boot  with  his 
stick  and  straightened  his  shoulders. 

"I  think  you're  extremely  selfish,  if  you  ask  me," 
he  said. 

The  young  man  stood  up  quickly  and  took  his 
elevator-rope  in  both  hands.  "All  right,"  he  said, 
quietly,  "that  settles  it.  I'll  take  you  up  to  Annie 
now,  and  you  can  arrange  it  with  her.  I'm  not 
standing  in  her  way." 

"Hold  on,"  protested  Van  Bibber  and  Travers 
in  a  breath.  "Don't  be  in  such  a  hurry,"  growled 
Travers. 

The  young  man  stood  immovable,  with  his 
hands  on  the  wire  and  looking  down  on  them,  his 
face  full  of  doubt  and  distress. 

"I  don't  want  to  stand  in  Annie's  way,"  he  re 
peated,  as  though  to  himself.  "I'll  do  whatever 
you  say.  I'll  take  you  to  the  seventh  floor  or  I'll 
drop  you  to  the  street.  It's  up  to  you,  gentle 
men,"  he  added,  helplessly,  and  turning  his  back 
to  them  threw  his  arm  against  the  wall  of  the  ele 
vator  and  buried  his  face  upon  it. 

There  was  an  embarrassing  pause,  during  which 
Van  Bibber  scowled  at  himself  in  the  mirror  oppo. 
site  as  though  to  ask  it  what  a  man  who  lookedl 
like  that  should  do  under  such  trying  circumstances. 

93 


Cinderella 

He  turned  at  last  and  stared  at  Travers. 
"  'Where  ignorance  is  bliss,  it's  folly  to  be  wise,'  " 
he  whispered,  keeping  his  face  toward  his  friend. 
"What  do  you  say?  Personally  I  don't  see  myself 
in  the  part  of  Providence.  It's  the  case  of  the 
poor  man  and  his  one  ewe  lamb,  isn't  it?" 

"We  don't  want  his  ewe  lamb,  do  we?"  growled 
Travers.     "It's  a  case  of  the  dog  in  a  manger,  I 
say.     I  thought  we  were  going  to  be  fairy  god 
fathers  to  'La  Cinderella.'  ' 

"The  lady  seems  to  be  supplied  with  a  most 
determined  godfather  as  it  is,"  returned  Van 
Bibber. 

The  elevator-boy  raised  his  face  and  stared  at 
them  with  haggard  eyes. 

"Well?"  he  begged. 

Van  Bibber  smiled  upon  him  reassuringly,  with 
a  look  partly  of  respect  and  partly  of  pity. 

"You  can  drop  us  to  the  street,"  he  said. 


94 


MISS    DELAMAR'S 
UNDERSTUDY 


Miss  Delamar's  Understudy 

A  YOUNG  man  runs  two  chances  of  marry 
ing  the  wrong  woman.  He  marries  her 
because  she  is  beautiful,  and  because  he  persuades 
himself  that  every  other  lovable  attribute  must  be 
associated  with  such  beauty,  or  because  she  is  in 
love  with  him.  If  this  latter  is  the  case,  she  gives 
certain  values  to  what  he  thinks  and  to  what  he 
says  which  no  other  woman  gives,  and  so  he  ob 
serves  to  himself,  "This  is  the  woman  who  best 
understands  me." 

You  can  reverse  this  and  say  that  young  women 
run  the  same  risks,  but  as  men  are  seldom  beauti 
ful,  the  first  danger  is  eliminated.  Women  still 
marry  men,  however,  because  they  are  loved  by 
them,  and  in  time  the  woman  grows  to  depend 
upon  this  love  and  to  need  it,  and  is  not  content 
without  it,  and  so  she  consents  to  marry  the  man 
for  no  other  reason  than  because  he  cares  for  her. 
For  if  a  dog,  even,  runs  up  to  you  wagging  his 
tail  and  acting  as  though  he  were  glad  to  see  you, 
you  pat  him  on  the  head  and  say,  "What  a  nice 

From  "  Cinderella  and  Other  Stories."    Copyright,  1898,  by  Charles  Scribner's  Sons. 

97 


Miss  Delamar's  Understudy 

dog."  You  like  him  because  he  likes  you,  and  not 
because  he  belongs  to  a  fine  breed  of  animal  and 
could  take  blue  ribbons  at  bench  shows. 

This  is  the  story  of  a  young  man  who  was  in 
love  with  a  beautiful  woman,  and  who  allowed  her 
beauty  to  compensate  him  for  many  other  things. 
When  she  failed  to  understand  what  he  said  to 
her  he  smiled  and  looked  at  her  and  forgave  her 
at  once,  and  when  she  began  to  grow  uninteresting, 
he  would  take  up  his  hat  and  go  away,  and  so  he 
never  knew  how  very  uninteresting  she  might  pos 
sibly  be  if  she  were  given  time  enough  in  which 
to  demonstrate  the  fact.  He  never  considered 
that,  were  he  married  to  her,  he  could  not  take  up 
his  hat  and  go  away  when  she  became  uninterest 
ing,  and  that  her  remarks,  which  were  not  brilliant, 
could  not  be  smiled  away  either.  They  would  rise 
up  and  greet  him  every  morning,  and  would  be 
the  last  thing  he  would  hear  at  night. 

Miss  Delamar's  beauty  was  so  conspicuous  that 
to  pretend  not  to  notice  it  was  more  foolish  than 
well-bred.  You  got  along  more  easily  and  simply 
by  accepting  it  at  once,  and  referring  to  it,  and 
enjoying  its  effect  upon  other  people.  To  go  out 
of  one's  way  to  talk  of  other  things  when  every 
one,  even  Miss  Delamar  herself,  knew  what  must 
be  uppermost  in  your  mind,  always  seemed  as  ab 
surd  as  to  strain  a  point  in  politeness,  and  to 

98 


Miss  Delamar's  Understudy 

pretend  not  to  notice  that  a  guest  had  upset  his 
claret,  or  any  other  embarrassing  fact.  For  Miss 
Delamar's  beauty  was  so  distinctly  embarrassing 
that  this  was  the  only  way  to  meet  it — to  smile 
and  pass  it  over  and  to  try,  if  possible,  to  get  on 
to  something  else.  It  was  on  account  of  this  ex 
traordinary  quality  in  her  appearance  that  every 
one  considered  her  beauty  as  something  which 
transcended  her  private  ownership,  and  which  be 
longed  by  right  to  the  polite  world  at  large,  to 
anyone  who  could  appreciate  it  properly,  just  as 
though  it  were  a  sunset  or  a  great  work  of  art 
or  of  nature.  And  so,  when  she  gave  away  her 
photographs  no  one  thought  it  meant  anything 
more  serious  than  a  recognition  on  her  part  of  the 
fact  that  it  would  have  been  unkind  and  selfish 
in  her  not  to  have  shared  the  enjoyment  of  so 
much  loveliness  with  others. 

Consequently,  when  she  sent  one  of  her  largest 
and  most  aggravatingly  beautiful  photographs  to 
young  Stuart,  it  was  no  sign  that  she  cared  espe 
cially  for  him. 

How  much  young  Stuart  cared  for  Miss  Dela- 
mar,  however,  was  an  open  question,  and  a  condi 
tion  yet  to  be  discovered.  That  he  cared  for  some 
one,  and  cared  so  much  that  his  imagination  had 
begun  to  picture  the  awful  joys  and  responsibilities 
of  marriage,  was  only  too  well  known  to  himself, 

99 


Miss  Delamar's  Understudy 

and  was  a  state  of  mind  already  suspected  by  his 
friends. 

Stuart  was  a  member  of  the  New  York  bar,  and 
the  distinguished  law  firm  to  which  he  belonged 
was  very  proud  of  its  junior  member,  and  treated 
him  with  indulgence  and  affection,  which  was  not 
unmixed  with  amusement.  For  Stuart's  legal 
knowledge  had  been  gathered  in  many  odd  corners 
of  the  globe,  and  was  various  and  peculiar.  It 
had  been  his  pleasure  to  study  the  laws  by  which 
men  ruled  other  men  in  every  condition  of  life, 
and  under  every  sun.  The  regulations  of  a  new 
mining  camp  were  fraught  with  as  great  interest 
to  him  as  the  accumulated  precedents  of  the  Eng 
lish  Constitution,  and  he  had  investigated  the  rul 
ings  of  the  mixed  courts  of  Egypt  and  of  the  gov 
ernment  of  the  little  Dutch  republic  near  the  Cape 
with  as  keen  an  effort  to  comprehend,  as  he  had 
shown  in  studying  the  laws  of  the  American  colo 
nies  and  of  the  Commonwealth  of  Massachusetts. 

But  he  was  not  always  serious,  and  it  sometimes 
happened  that  after  he  had  arrived  at  some  queer 
little  island  where  the  native  prince  and  the  Eng 
lish  governor  sat  in  judgment  together,  his  interest 
in  the  intricacies  of  their  laws  would  give  way  to 
the  more  absorbing  occupation  of  chasing  wild 
boar  or  shooting  at  tigers  from  the  top  of  an  ele 
phant.  And  so  he  was  not  only  regarded  as  an 

100 


Miss  Delamar's  Understudy 

authority  on  many  forms  of  government  and  of 
law,  into  which  no  one  else  had  ever  taken  the 
trouble  to  look,  but  his  books  on  big  game  were 
eagerly  read  and  his  articles  in  the  magazines  were 
earnestly  discussed,  whether  they  told  of  the  di 
vorce  laws  of  Dakota,  and  the  legal  rights  of 
widows  in  Cambodia,  or  the  habits  of  the  Mexican 
lion. 

Stuart  loved  his  work  better  than  he  knew,  but 
how  well  he  loved  Miss  Delamar  neither  he  nor 
his  friends  could  tell.  She  was  the  most  beautiful 
and  lovely  creature  that  he  had  ever  seen,  and  of 
that  only  was  he  certain. 

Stuart  was  sitting  in  the  club  one  day  when  the 
conversation  turned  to  matrimony.  He  was  among 
his  own  particular  friends,  the  men  before  whom 
he  could  speak  seriously  or  foolishly  without  fear 
of  being  misunderstood  or  of  having  what  he  said 
retold  and  spoiled  in  the  telling.  There  was  Sel- 
don,  the  actor,  and  Rives,  who  painted  pictures, 
and  young  Sloane,  who  travelled  for  pleasure  and 
adventure,  and  Weimer,  who  stayed  at  home  and 
wrote  for  the  reviews.  They  were  all  bachelors, 
and  very  good  friends,  and  jealously  guarded  their 
little  circle  from  the  intrusion  of  either  men  or 
women. 

"Of  course  the  chief  objection  to  marriage," 
Stuart  said — it  was  the  very  day  in  which  the 

101 


Miss  Delamar's  Understudy 

picture  had  been  sent  to  his  rooms — "is  the  old  one 
that  you  can't  tell  anything  about  it  until  you  are 
committed  to  it  forever.  It  is  a  very  silly  thing 
to  discuss  even,  because  there  is  no  way  of  bring 
ing  it  about,  but  there  really  should  be  some  sort 
of  a  preliminary  trial.  As  the  man  says  in  the 
play,  'You  wouldn't  buy  a  watch  without  testing 
it  first.'  You  don't  buy  a  hat  even  without  putting 
it  on,  and  finding  out  whether  it  is  becoming  or 
not,  or  whether  your  peculiar  style  of  ugliness  can 
stand  it.  And  yet  men  go  gayly  off  and  get  mar 
ried,  and  make  the  most  awful  promises,  and  alter 
their  whole  order  of  life,  and  risk  the  happiness 
of  some  lovely  creature  on  trust,  as  it  were,  know 
ing  absolutely  nothing  of  the  new  conditions  and 
responsibilities  of  the  life  before  them.  Even  a 
river-pilot  has  to  serve  an  apprenticeship  before 
he  gets  a  license,  and  yet  we  are  allowed  to  take 
just  as  great  risks,  and  only  because  we  want  to 
take  them.  It's  awful,  and  it's  all  wrong." 

"Well,  I  don't  see  what  one  is  going  to  do  about 
it,"  commented  young  Sloane,  lightly,  "except  to 
get  divorced.  That  road  is  always  open." 

Sloane  was  starting  the  next  morning  for  the 
Somali  Country,  in  Abyssinia,  to  shoot  rhinoceros, 
and  his  interest  in  matrimony  was  in  consequence 
somewhat  slight. 

"It  isn't  the  fear  of  the  responsibilities  that 
1 02 


Miss  Delamar's  Understudy 

keeps  Stuart,  nor  any  one  of  us  back,"  said  Wei- 
mer,  contemptuously.  "It's  because  we're  selfish. 
That's  the  whole  truth  of  the  matter.  We  love 
our  work,  or  our  pleasure,  or  to  knock  about  the 
world,  better  than  we  do  any  particular  woman. 
When  one  of  us  comes  to  love  the  woman  best,  his 
conscience  won't  trouble  him  long  about  the  re 
sponsibilities  of  marrying  her." 

"Not  at  all,"  said  Stuart.  "I  am  quite  sincere; 
I  maintain  that  there  should  be  a  preliminary 
stage.  Of  course  there  can't  be,  and  it's  absurd 
to  think  of  it,  but  it  would  save  a  lot  of  unhappi- 
ness." 

"Well,"  said  Seldon,  dryly,  "when  you've  in 
vented  a  way  to  prevent  marriage  from  being  a 
lottery,  let  me  know,  will  you?"  He  stood  up 
and  smiled  nervously.  "Any  of  you  coming  to 
see  us  to-night?"  he  asked. 

"That's  so,"  exclaimed  Weimer;  "I  forgot.  It's 
the  first  night  of  'A  Fool  and  His  Money,'  isn't 
it?  Of  course  we're  coming." 

"I  told  them  to  put  a  box  away  for  you  in  case 
you  wanted  it,"  Seldon  continued.  "Don't  expect 
much.  It's  a  silly  piece,  and  I've  a  silly  part,  and 
I'm  very  bad  in  it.  You  must  come  around  to 
supper,  and  tell  me  where  I'm  bad  in  it,  and  we 
will  talk  it  over.  You're  coming,  Stuart?" 

"My  dear  old  man,"  said  Stuart,  reproachfully, 
103 


Miss  Delamar's  Understudy 

"of  course  I  am.  I've  had  my  seats  for  the  last 
three  weeks.  Do  you  suppose  I  could  miss  hearing 
you  mispronounce  all  the  Hindostanee  I've  taught 
you?" 

"Well,  good-night  then,"  said  the  actor,  waving 
his  hand  to  his  friends  as  he  moved  away.  "  'We, 
who  are  about  to  die,  salute  you !'  ' 

"Good  luck  to  you,"  said  Sloane,  holding  up  his 
glass.  "To  the  Fool  and  His  Money,"  he  laughed. 
He  turned  to  the  table  again,  and  sounded  the  bell 
for  the  waiter.  "Now  let's  send  him  a  telegram 
and  wish  him  success,  and  all  sign  it,"  he  said, 
"and  don't  you  fellows  tell  him  that  I  wasn't  in 
front  to-night.  I've  got  to  go  to  a  dinner  the 
Travellers'  Club  are  giving  me."  There  was  a 
protesting  chorus  of  remonstrance.  "Oh,  I  don't 
like  it  any  better  than  you  do,"  said  Sloane,  "but 
I'll  get  away  early  and  join  you  before  the  play's 
over.  No  one  in  the  Travellers'  Club,  you  see, 
has  ever  travelled  farther  from  New  York  than 
London  or  the  Riviera,  and  so  when  a  member 
starts  for  Abyssinia  they  give  him  a  dinner,  and 
he  has  to  take  himself  very  seriously  indeed,  and 
cry  with  Seldon,  'I,  who  am  about  to  die,  salute 
you !'  If  that  man  there  was  any  use,"  he  added, 
interrupting  himself  and  pointing  with  his  glass 
at  Stuart,  "he'd  pack  up  his  things  to-night  and 
come  with  me." 

104 


Miss  Delamar's  Understudy 

"Oh,  don't  urge  him,"  remonstrated  Weimer, 
who  had  travelled  all  over  the  world  in  imagina 
tion,  with  the  aid  of  globes  and  maps,  but  never 
had  got  any  farther  from  home  than  Montreal. 
"We  can't  spare  Stuart.  He  has  to  stop  here  and 
invent  a  preliminary  marriage  state,  so  that  if  he 
finds  he  doesn't  like  a  girl,  he  can  leave  her  before 
it  is  too  late." 

"You  sail  at  seven,  I  believe,  and  from  Hobo- 
ken,  don't  you?"  asked  Stuart,  undisturbed.  "If 
you'll  start  at  eleven  from  the  New  York  side,  I 
think  I'll  go  with  you,  but  I  hate  getting  up  early; 
and  then  you  see — I  know  what  dangers  lurk  in 
Abyssinia,  but  who  could  tell  what  might  not  hap 
pen  to  him  in  Hoboken?" 

When  Stuart  returned  to  his  room,  he  found  a 
large  package  set  upright  in  an  arm-chair  and  en 
veloped  by  many  wrappings;  but  the  handwriting 
on  the  outside  told  him  at  once  from  whom  it  came 
and  what  it  might  be,  and  he  pounced  upon  it 
eagerly  and  tore  it  from  its  covers.  The  photo 
graph  was  a  very  large  one,  and  the  likeness  to 
the  original  so  admirable  that  the  face  seemed  to 
smile  and  radiate  with  all  the  loveliness  and 
beauty  of  Miss  Delamar  herself.  Stuart  beamed 
upon  it  with  genuine  surprise  and  pleasure,  and 
exclaimed  delightedly  to  himself.  There  was  a 
living  quality  about  the  picture  which  made  him 

105 


Miss  Delamar's  Understudy 

almost  speak  to  it,  and  thank  Miss  Delamar 
through  it  for  the  pleasure  she  had  given  him  and 
the  honor  she  had  bestowed.  He  was  proud,  flat 
tered,  and  triumphant,  and  while  he  walked  about 
the  room  deciding  where  he  would  place  it,  and 
holding  the  picture  respectfully  before  him,  he 
smiled  upon  it  with  grateful  satisfaction. 

He  decided  against  his  dressing-table  as  being 
too  intimate  a  place  for  it,  and  so  carried  the  pict 
ure  on  from  his  bedroom  to  the  dining-room  be 
yond,  where  he  set  it  among  his  silver  on  the  side 
board.  But  so  little  of  his  time  was  spent  in  this 
room  that  he  concluded  he  would  derive  but  little 
pleasure  from  it  there,  and  so  bore  it  back  again 
into  his  library,  where  there  were  many  other  pho» 
tographs  and  portraits,  and  where  to  other  eyes 
than  his  own  it  would  be  less  conspicuous. 

He  tried  it  first  in  one  place  and  then  in  another ; 
but  in  each  position  the  picture  predominated  and 
asserted  itself  so  markedly,  that  Stuart  gave  up 
the  idea  of  keeping  it  inconspicuous,  and  placed  it 
prominently  over  the  fireplace,  where  it  reigned 
supreme  above  every  other  object  in  the  room. 
It  was  not  only  the  most  conspicuous  object  there, 
but  the  living  quality  which  it  possessed  in  so 
marked  a  degree,  and  which  was  due  to  its  natural 
ness  of  pose  and  the  excellence  of  the  likeness, 
made  it  permeate  the  place  like  a  presence  and  with 

1 06 


Miss  Delamar's  Understudy 

the  individuality  of  a  real  person.  Stuart  observed 
this  effect  with  amused  interest,  and  noted  also 
that  the  photographs  of  other  women  had  become 
commonplace  in  comparison  like  lithographs  in  a 
shop-window,  and  that  the  more  masculine  acces 
sories  of  a  bachelor's  apartment  had  grown  sud 
denly  aggressive  and  out  of  keeping.  The  liquor- 
case  and  the  racks  of  arms  and  of  barbarous  weap 
ons  which  he  had  collected  with  such  pride  seemed 
to  have  lost  their  former  value  and  meaning,  and 
he  instinctively  began  to  gather  up  the  mass  of 
books  and  maps  and  photographs  and  pipes  and 
gloves  which  lay  scattered  upon  the  table,  and  to 
put  them  in  their  proper  place,  or  to  shove  them 
out  of  sight  altogether.  "If  I'm  to  live  up  to  that 
picture,"  he  thought,  "I  must  see  that  George 
keeps  this  room  in  better  order — and  I  must  stop 
wandering  round  here  in  my  bath-robe." 

His  mind  continued  on  the  picture  while  he  was 
dressing,  and  he  was  so  absorbed  in  it  and  in  ana 
lyzing  the  effect  it  had  had  upon  him,  that  his 
servant  spoke  twice  before  he  heard  him. 

"No,"  he  answered,  "I  shall  not  dine  here  to 
night."  Dining  at  home  was  with  him  a  very 
simple  affair,  and  a  somewhat  lonely  one,  and  he 
avoided  it  almost  nightly  by  indulging  himself  in 
a  more  expensive  fashion. 

But  even  as  he  spoke  an  idea  came  to  Stuart 
107 


Miss  Delamar's  Understudy 

which  made  him  reconsider  his  determination,  and 
which  struck  him  as  so  amusing,  that  he  stopped 
pulling  at  his  tie  and  smiled  delightedly  at  him 
self  in  the  glass  before  him. 

"Yes,"  he  said,  still  smiling,  "I  will  dine  here 
to-night.  Get  me  anything  in  a  hurry.  You  need 
not  wait  now ;  go  get  the  dinner  up  as  soon  as  pos 
sible." 

The  effect  which  the  photograph  of  Miss  Dela- 
mar  had  upon  him,  and  the  transformation  it  had 
accomplished  in  his  room,  had  been  as  great  as 
would  have  marked  the  presence  there  of  the  girl 
herself.  While  considering  this  it  had  come  to 
Stuart,  like  a  flash  of  inspiration,  that  here  was 
a  way  by  which  he  could  test  the  responsibilities 
and  conditions  of  married  life  without  compromis 
ing  either  himself  or  the  girl  to  whom  he  would 
suppose  himself  to  be  married. 

"I  will  put  that  picture  at  the  head  of  the  table," 
he  said,  "and  I  will  play  that  it  is  she  herself,  her 
own,  beautiful,  lovely  self,  and  I  will  talk  to  her 
and  exchange  views  with  her,  and  make  her  answer 
me  just  as  she  would  were  we  actually  married  and 
settled."  He  looked  at  his  watch  and  found  it 
was  just  seven  o'clock.  "I  will  begin  now,"  he 
said,  "and  I  will  keep  up  the  delusion  until  mid 
night.  To-night  is  the  best  time  to  try  the  ex 
periment,  because  the  picture  is  new  now,  and  its 

1 08 


Miss  Delamar's  Understudy 

influence  will  be  all  the  more  real.  In  a  few  weeks 
it  may  have  lost  some  of  its  freshness  and  reality 
and  will  have  become  one  of  the  fixtures  in  the 
room." 

Stuart  decided  that  under  these  new  conditions 
it  would  be  more  pleasant  to  dine  at  Delmonico's, 
and  he  was  on  the  point  of  asking  the  Picture 
what  she  thought  of  it,  when  he  remembered  that 
while  it  had  been  possible  for  him  to  make  a  prac 
tice  of  dining  at  that  place  as  a  bachelor,  he  could 
not  now  afford  so  expensive  a  luxury,  and  he  de 
cided  that  he  had  better  economize  in  that  particu 
lar  and  go  instead  to  one  of  the  table  tfhdte  restau 
rants  in  the  neighborhood.  He  regretted  not 
having  thought  of  this  sooner,  for  he  did  not  care 
to  dine  at  a  table  tfhdte  in  evening  dress,  as  in  some 
places  it  rendered  him  conspicuous.  So,  sooner 
than  have  this  happen  he  decided  to  dine  at  home, 
as  he  had  originally  intended  when  he  first  thought 
of  attempting  this  experiment,  and  then  conducted 
the  Picture  in  to  dinner  and  placed  her  in  an  arm 
chair  facing  him,  with  the  candles  full  upon  the 
face. 

"Now  this  is  something  like,"  he  exclaimed,  joy 
ously.  "I  can't  imagine  anything  better  than  this. 
Here  we  are  all  to  ourselves  with  no  one  to  bother 
us,  with  no  chaperone,  or  chaperone's  husband 
either,  which  is  generally  worse.  Why  is  it,  my 

IOO 


Miss  Delamar's  Understudy 

dear,"  he  asked,  gayly,  in  a  tone  that  he  considered 
affectionate  and  husbandly,  "that  the  attractive 
chaperones  are  always  handicapped  by  such  stupid 
husbands,  and  vice  versa?" 

"If  that  is  true,"  replied  the  Picture,  or  replied 
Stuart,  rather,  for  the  picture,  "I  cannot  be  a  very 
attractive  chaperone."  Stuart  bowed  politely  at 
this,  and  then  considered  the  point  it  had  raised 
as  to  whether  he  had,  in  assuming  both  characters, 
the  right  to  pay  himself  compliments.  He  decided 
against  himself  in  this  particular  instance,  but 
agreed  that  he  was  not  responsible  for  anything 
the  Picture  might  say,  so  long  as  he  sincerely  and 
fairly  tried  to  make  it  answer  him  as  he  thought 
the  original  would  do  under  like  circumstances. 
From  what  he  knew  of  the  original  under  other 
conditions,  he  decided  that  he  could  give  a  very 
close  imitation  of  her  point  of  view. 

Stuart's  interest  in  his  dinner  was  so  real  that 
he  found  himself  neglecting  his  wife,  and  he  had 
to  pull  himself  up  to  his  duty  with  a  sharp  re 
proof.  After  smiling  back  at  her  for  a  moment 
or  two  until  his  servant  had  again  left  them  alone, 
he  asked  her  to  tell  him  what  she  had  been  doing 
during  the  day. 

"Oh,  nothing  very  important,"  said  the  Picture. 
"I  went  shopping  in  the  morning  and " 

Stuart  stopped  himself  and  considered  this  last 
no 


Miss  Delamar's  Understudy 

remark  doubtfully.  "Now,  how  do  I  know  she 
would  go  shopping?"  he  asked  himself.  "People 
from  Harlem  and  women  who  like  bargain-coun 
ters,  and  who  eat  chocolate  meringue  for  lunch, 
and  then  stop  in  at  a  continuous  performance,  go 
shopping.  It  must  be  the  comic-paper  sort  of 
wives  who  go  about  matching  shades  and  buying 
hooks  and  eyes.  Yes,  I  must  have  made  Miss 
Delamar's  understudy  misrepresent  her.  I  beg 
your  pardon,  my  dear,"  he  said  aloud  to  the  Pict 
ure.  "You  did  not  go  shopping  this  morning. 
You  probably  went  to  a  woman's  luncheon  some 
where.  Tell  me  about  that." 

"Oh,  yes,  I  went  to  lunch  with  the  Antwerps," 
said  the  Picture,  "and  they  had  that  Russian  wom 
an  there  who  is  getting  up  subscriptions  for  the 
Siberian  prisoners.  It's  rather  fine  of  her,  because 
it  exiles  her  from  Russia.  And  she  is  a  princess." 

"That's  nothing,"  Stuart  interrupted;  "they're 
all  princesses  when  you  see  them  on  Broadway." 

"I  beg  your  pardon,"  said  the  Picture. 

"It's  of  no  consequence,"  said  Stuart,  apologet 
ically,  "it's  a  comic  song.  I  forgot  you  didn't  like 
comic  songs.  Well — go  on." 

"Oh,  then  I  went  to  a  tea,  and  then  I  stopped 
in  to  hear  Madame  Ruvier  read  a  paper  on  the 
Ethics  of  Ibsen,  and  she " 

Stuart's  voice  had  died  away  gradually,  and  he 
in 


Miss  Delamar's   Understudy 

caught  himself  wondering  whether  he  had  told 
George  to  lay  in  a  fresh  supply  of  cigars.  "I  beg 
your  pardon,"  he  said,  briskly,  "I  was  listening, 
but  I  was  just  wondering  whether  I  had  any  cigars 
left.  You  were  saying  that  you  had  been  at  Ma 
dame  Ruvier's,  and " 

"I  am  afraid  that  you  were  not  interested,"  said 
the  Picture.  "Never  mind,  it's  my  fault.  Some 
times  I  think  I  ought  to  do  things  of  more  interest, 
so  that  I  should  have  something  to  talk  to  you 
about  when  you  come  home." 

Stuart  wondered  at  what  hour  he  would  come 
home  now  that  he  was  married.  As  a  bachelor 
he  had  been  in  the  habit  of  stopping  on  his  way 
uptown  from  the  law-office  at  the  club,  or  to 
take  tea  at  the  houses  of  the  different  girls  he 
liked.  Of  course  he  could  not  do  that  now  as  a 
married  man.  He  would  instead  have  to  limit  his 
calls  to  married  women,  as  all  the  other  married 
men  of  his  acquaintance  did.  But  at  the  moment 
he  could  not  think  of  any  attractive  married  wom 
en  who  would  like  his  dropping  in  on  them  in  such 
a  familiar  manner,  and  the  other  sort  did  not  as 
yet  appeal  to  him. 

He  seated  himself  in  front  of  the  coal-fire  in 
the  library,  with  the  Picture  in  a  chair  close  beside 
him,  and  as  he  puffed  pleasantly  on  his  cigar  he 
thought  how  well  this  suited  him,  and  how  de- 

112 


Miss  Delamar's  Understudy 

lightful  it  was  to  find  content  in  so  simple  and  con 
tinuing  a  pleasure.  He  could  almost  feel  the  press 
ure  of  his  wife's  hand  as  it  lay  in  his  own,  as 
they  sat  in  silent  sympathy  looking  into  the  friend 
ly  glow  of  the  fire. 

There  was  a  long,  pleasant  pause. 

"They're  giving  Sloane  a  dinner  to-night  at  the 
'Travellers','  "  Stuart  said,  at  last,  "in  honor  of 
his  going  to  Abyssinia." 

Stuart  pondered  for  some  short  time  as  to  what 
sort  of  a  reply  Miss  Delamar's  understudy  ought 
to  make  to  this  innocent  remark.  He  recalled  the 
fact  that  on  numerous  occasions  the  original  had 
shown  not  only  a  lack  of  knowledge  of  far-away 
places,  but,  what  was  more  trying,  a  lack  of  inter 
est  as  well.  For  the  moment  he  could  not  see  her 
robbed  of  her  pretty  environment  and  tramping 
through  undiscovered  countries  at  his  side.  So 
the  Picture's  reply,  when  it  came,  was  strictly  in 
keeping  with  several  remarks  which  Miss  Dela- 
mar  herself  had  made  to  him  in  the  past. 

"Yes,"  said  the  Picture,  politely,  "and  where  is 
Abyssinia — in  India,  isn't  it?" 

"No,  not  exactly,"  corrected  Stuart,  mildly; 
"you  pass  it  on  your  way  to  India,  though,  as  you 
go  through  the  Red  Sea.  Sloane  is  taking  Win 
chesters  with  him  and  a  double  express  and  a  'five 
fifty.'  He  wants  to  test  their  penetration.  I  think 


Miss  Delamar's  Understudy 

myself  that  the  express  is  the  best,  but  he  says 
Selous  and  Chanler  think  very  highly  of  the  Win 
chester.  I  don't  know,  I  never  shot  a  rhinoceros. 
The  time  I  killed  that  elephant,"  he  went  on,  point 
ing  at  two  tusks  that  stood  with  some  assegais  in 
a  corner,  "I  used  an  express,  and  I  had  to  let  go 
with  both  barrels.  I  suppose,  though,  if  I'd  needed 
a  third  shot,  I'd  have  wished  it  was  a  Winchester. 
He  was  charging  the  smoke,  you  see,  and  I  couldn't 
get  away  because  I'd  caught  my  foot — but  I  told 
you  about  that,  didn't  I  ?"  Stuart  interrupted  him 
self  to  ask  politely. 

"Yes,"  said  the  Picture,  cheerfully,  "I  remem 
ber  it  very  well;  it  was  very  foolish  of  you." 

Stuart  straightened  himself  with  a  slightly  in 
jured  air  and  avoided  the  Picture's  eye.  He  had 
been  stopped  midway  in  what  was  one  of  his  favor 
ite  stories,  and  it  took  a  brief  space  of  time  for 
him  to  recover  himself,  and  to  sink  back  again  into 
the  pleasant  lethargy  in  which  he  had  been  bask 
ing. 

"Still,"  he  said,  "I  think  the  express  is  the  bet 
ter  gun." 

"Oh,  is  an  'express'  a  gun?"  exclaimed  the  Pict 
ure,  with  sudden  interest.  "Of  course,  I  might 
have  known." 

Stuart  turned  in  his  chair,  and  surveyed  the  Pict 
ure  in  some  surprise.  "But,  my  dear  girl,"  he 


Miss  Delamar's  Understudy 

remonstrated,  kindly,  "why  didn't  you  ask,  if  you 
didn't  know  what  I  was  talking  about?  What  did 
you  suppose  it  was?" 

"I  didn't  know,"  said  the  Picture;  "I  thought 
it  was  something  to  do  with  his  luggage.  Abys 
sinia  sounds  so  far  away,"  she  explained,  smiling 
sweetly.  "You  can't  expect  one  to  be  interested 
in  such  queer  places,  can  you?" 

"No,"  Stuart  answered,  reluctantly,  and  looking 
steadily  at  the  fire,  "I  suppose  not.  But  you  see, 
my  dear,"  he  said,  "I'd  have  gone  with  him  if  I 
hadn't  married  you,  and  so  I  am  naturally  inter 
ested  in  his  outfit.  They  wanted  me  to  make  a 
comparative  study  of  the  little  semi-independent 
states  down  there,  and  of  how  far  the  Italian  Gov 
ernment  allows  them  to  rule  themselves.  That's 
what  I  was  to  have  done." 

But  the  Picture  hastened  to  reassure  him.  "Oh, 
you  mustn't  think,"  she  exclaimed,  quickly,  "that 
I  mean  to  keep  you  at  home.  I  love  to  travel,  too. 
I  want  you  to  go  on  exploring  places  just  as  you've 
always  done,  only  now  I  will  go  with  you.  We 
might  do  the  Cathedral  towns,  for  instance." 

"The  what!"  gasped  Stuart,  raising  his  head. 
"Oh,  yes,  of  course,"  he  added,  hurriedly,  sinking 
back  into  his  chair  with  a  slightly  bewildered  ex 
pression.  "That  would  be  very  nice.  Perhaps 
your  mother  would  like  to  go,  too;  it's  not  a  dan- 


Miss  Delamar's  Understudy 

gerous  expedition,  is  it?  I  was  thinking  of  taking 
you  on  a  trip  through  the  South  Seas — but  I  sup 
pose  the  Cathedral  towns  are  just  as  exciting.  Or 
we  might  even  penetrate  as  far  into  the  interior 
as  the  English  lakes  and  read  Wordsworth  and 
Coleridge  as  we  go." 

Miss  Delamar's  understudy  observed  him  close 
ly  for  a  moment,  but  he  made  no  sign,  and  so  she 
turned  her  eyes  again  to  the  fire  with  a  slightly 
troubled  look.  She  had  not  a  strong  sense  of 
humor,  but  she  was  very  beautiful. 

Stuart's  conscience  troubled  him  for  the  next 
few  moments,  and  he  endeavored  to  make  up  for 
his  impatience  of  the  moment  before  by  telling  the 
Picture  how  particularly  well  she  was  looking. 

"It  seems  almost  selfish  to  keep  it  all  to  myself," 
he  mused. 

"You  don't  mean,"  inquired  the  Picture,  with 
tender  anxiety,  "that  you  want  anyone  else  here, 
do  you?  I'm  sure  I  could  be  content  to  spend 
every  evening  like  this.  I've  had  enough  of  going 
out  and  talking  to  people  I  don't  care  about.  Two 
seasons,"  she  added,  with  the  superior  air  of  one 
who  has  put  away  childish  things,  "was  quite 
enough  of  it  for  me." 

"Well,  I  never  took  it  as  seriously  as  that," 
said  Stuart,  "but,  of  course,  I  don't  want  anyone 
else  here  to  spoil  our  evening.  It  is  perfect." 

116 


Miss  Delamar's  Understudy 

He  assured  himself  that  it  was  perfect,  but  he 
wondered  what  was  the  loyal  thing  for  a  married 
couple  to  do  when  the  conversation  came  to  a  dead 
stop.  And  did  the  conversation  come  to  a  stop 
because  they  preferred  to  sit  in  silent  sympathy 
and  communion,  or  because  they  had  nothing  inter 
esting  to  talk  about?  Stuart  doubted  if  silence 
was  the  truest  expression  of  the  most  perfect  con 
fidence  and  sympathy.  He  generally  found  when 
he  was  interested,  that  either  he  or  his  companion 
talked  all  the  time.  It  was  when  he  was  bored 
that  he  sat  silent.  But  it  was  probably  different 
with  married  people.  Possibly  they  thought  of 
each  other  during  these  pauses,  and  of  their  own 
affairs  and  interests,  and  then  he  asked  himself 
how  many  interests  could  one  fairly  retain  with 
which  the  other  had  nothing  to  do? 

"I  suppose,"  thought  Stuart,  "that  I  had  better 
compromise  and  read  aloud.  Should  you  like  me 
to  read  aloud?"  he  asked,  doubtfully. 

The  Picture  brightened  perceptibly  at  this,  and 
said  that  she  thought  that  would  be  charming. 
"We  might  make  it  quite  instructive,"  she  suggest 
ed,  entering  eagerly  into  the  idea.  "We  ought  to 
agree  to  read  so  many  pages  every  night.  Sup 
pose  we  begin  with  Guizot's  'History  of  France.* 
I  have  always  meant  to  read  that,  the  illustrations 
look  so  interesting." 

117 


Miss  Delamar's  Understudy 

"Yes,  we  might  do  that,"  assented  Stuart,  doubt 
fully.  "It  is  in  six  volumes,  isn't  it?  Suppose 
now,  instead,"  he  suggested,  with  an  impartial  air, 
"we  begin  that- to-morrow  night,  and  go  this  even 
ing  to  see  Seldon's  new  play,  'The  Fool  and  His 
Money.'  It's  not  too  late,  and  he  has  saved  a  box 
for  us,  and  Weimer  and  Rives  and  Sloane  will  be 
there,  and " 

The  Picture's  beautiful  face  settled  for  just  an 
instant  in  an  expression  of  disappointment.  "Of 
course,"  she  replied,  slowly,  "if  you  wish  it.  But 
I  thought  you  said,"  she  went  on  with  a  sweet 
smile,  "that  this  was  perfect.  Now  you  want  to 
go  out  again.  Isn't  this  better  than  a  hot  theatre  ? 
You  might  put  up  with  it  for  one  evening,  don't 
you  think?" 

"Put  up  with  it!"  exclaimed  Stuart,  enthusias 
tically;  "I  could  spend  every  evening  so.  It  was 
only  a  suggestion.  It  wasn't  that  I  wanted  to  go 
so  much  as  that  I  thought  Seldon  might  be  a  little 
hurt  if  I  didn't.  But  I  can  tell  him  you  were  not 
feeling  very  well,  and  that  we  will  come  some  other 
evening.  He  generally  likes  to  have  us  there  on 
the  first  night,  that's  all.  But  he'll  understand." 

"Oh,"  said  the  Picture,  "if  you  put  it  in  the 
light  of  a  duty  to  your  friend,  of  course  we  will 

go-" 

"Not  at  all,"  replied  Stuart,  nearly;  "I  will 
ix8 


Miss  Delamar's  Understudy 

read  something.     I  should  really  prefer  it.     How 
would  you  like  something  of  Browning's?" 

"Oh,  I  read  all  of  Browning  once,"  said  the 
Picture.  "I  think  I  should  like  something 
new." 

Stuart  gasped  at  this,  but  said  nothing,  and  be 
gan  turning  over  the  books  on  the  centre-table. 
He  selected  one  of  the  monthly  magazines,  and 
choosing  a  story  which  neither  of  them  had  read, 
sat  down  comfortably  in  front  of  the  fire,  and  fin 
ished  it  without  interruption  and  to  the  satisfac 
tion  of  the  Picture  and  himself.  The  story  had 
made  the  half  hour  pass  very  pleasantly,  and  they 
both  commented  on  it  with  interest. 

"I  had  an  experience  once  myself  something 
like  that,"  said  Stuart,  with  a  pleased  smile  of 
recollection;  "it  happened  in  Paris" — he  began 
with  the  deliberation  of  a  man  who  is  sure  of  his 
story — "and  it  turned  out  in  much  the  same  way. 
It  didn't  begin  in  Paris;  it  really  began  while  we 
were  crossing  the  English  Channel  to " 

"Oh,  you  mean  about  the  Russian  who  took  you 
for  someone  else  and  had  you  followed,"  said  the 
Picture.  "Yes,  that  was  like  it,  except  that  in 
your  case  nothing  happened." 

Stuart  took  his  cigar  from  between  his  lips  and 
frowned  severely  at  the  lighted  end  for  some  little 
time  before  he  spoke. 

119 


Miss  Delamar's  Understudy 

"My  dear,"  he  remonstrated,  gently,  "you 
mustn't  tell  me  I've  told  you  all  my  old  stories 
before.  It  isn't  fair.  Now  that  I'm  married,  you 
see,  I  can't  go  about  and  have  new  experiences, 
and  I've  got  to  make  use  of  the  old  ones." 

"Oh,  I'm  so  sorry,"  exclaimed  the  Picture,  re 
morsefully.  "I  didn't  mean  to  be  rude.  Please 
tell  me  about  it.  I  should  like  to  hear  it  again, 
ever  so  much.  I  should  like  to  hear  it  again, 
really." 

"Nonsense,"  said  Stuart,  laughing  and  shaking 
his  head.  "I  was  only  joking;  personally  I  hate 
people  who  tell  long  stories.  That  doesn't  matter. 
I  was  thinking  of  something  else." 

He  continued  thinking  of  something  else,  which 
was,  that  though  he  had  been  in  jest  when  he  spoke 
of  having  given  up  the  chance  of  meeting  fresh 
experiences,  he  had  nevertheless  described  a  con 
dition,  and  a  painfully  true  one.  His  real  life 
seemed  to  have  stopped,  and  he  saw  himself  in 
the  future  looking  back  and  referring  to  it,  as 
though  it  were  the  career  of  an  entirely  different 
person,  of  a  young  man,  with  quick  sympathies 
which  required  satisfying,  as  any  appetite  requires 
food.  And  he  had  an  uncomfortable  doubt  that 
these  many  ever-ready  sympathies  would  rebel  if 
fed  on  only  one  diet. 

The  Picture  did  not  interrupt  him  in  his 
120 


Miss  Delamar's  Understudy 

thoughts,  and  he  let  his  mind  follow  his  eyes  as 
they  wandered  over  the  objects  above  him  on  the 
mantel-shelf.  They  all  meant  something  from  the 
past — a  busy,  wholesome  past  which  had  formed 
habits  of  thought  and  action,  habits  he  could  no 
longer  enjoy  alone,  and  which,  on  the  other  hand, 
it  was  quite  impossible  for  him  to  share  with  any 
one  else.  He  was  no  longer  to  be  alone. 

Stuart  stirred  uneasily  in  his  chair  and  poked 
at  the  fire  before  him. 

"Do  you  remember  the  day  you  came  to  see 
me,"  said  the  Picture,  sentimentally,  "and  built 
the  fire  yourself  and  lighted  some  girl's  letters  to 
make  it  burn?" 

"Yes,"  said  Stuart,  "that  is,  I  said  that  they 
were  some  girl's  letters.  It  made  it  more  pictur 
esque.  I  am  afraid  they  were  bills.  I  should  say  I 
did  remember  it,"  he  continued,  enthusiastically. 
"You  wore  a  black  dress  and  little  red  slippers 
with  big  black  rosettes,  and  you  looked  as  beauti 
ful  as — as  night — as  a  moonlight  night." 

The  Picture  frowned  slightly. 

"You  are  always  telling  me  about  how  I 
looked,"  she  complained;  "can't  you  remember 
any  time  when  we  were  together  without  remem 
bering  what  I  had  on  and  how  I  appeared?" 

"I  cannot,"  said  Stuart,  promptly.  "I  can  re 
call  lots  of  other  things  besides,  but  I  can't  forget 

121 


Miss  Delamarvs  Understudy 

how  you  looked.  You  have  a  fashion  of  empha 
sizing  episodes  in  that  way  which  is  entirely  your 
own.  But,  as  I  say,  I  can  remember  something 
else.  Do  you  remember,  for  instance,  when  we 
went  up  to  West  Point  on  that  yacht?  Wasn't  it 
a  grand  day,  with  the  autumn  leaves  on  both  sides 
of  the  Hudson,  and  the  dress  parade,  and  the 
dance  afterward  at  the  hotel?" 

"Yes,  I  should  think  I  did,"  said  the  Picture, 
smiling.  "You  spent  all  your  time  examining  can 
non,  and  talking  to  the  men  about  'firing  in  open 
order,'  and  left  me.  all  alone." 

"Left  you  all  alone  1  I  like  that,"  laughed  Stu 
art;  "all  alone  with  about  eighteen  officers." 

"Well,  but  that  was  natural,"  returned  the  Pict 
ure.  "They  were  men.  It's  natural  for  a  girl  to 
talk  to  men,  but  why  should  a  man  want  to  talk 
to  men?" 

"Well,  I  know  better  than  that  now,"  said 
Stuart. 

He  proceeded  to  show  that  he  knew  better  by 
remaining  silent  for  the  next  half  hour,  during 
which  time  he  continued  to  wonder  whether  this 
effort  to  keep  up  a  conversation  was  not  radically 
wrong.  He  thought  of  several  things  he  might 
say,  but  he  argued  that  it  was  an  impossible  situ 
ation  where  a  man  had  to  make  conversation  with 
his  own  wife. 

122 


Miss  Delamar's  Understudy 

The  clock  struck  ten  as  he  sat  waiting,  and  he 
moved  uneasily  in  his  chair. 

"What  is  it?"  asked  the  Picture;  "what  makes 
you  so  restless?" 

Stuart  regarded  the  Picture  timidly  for  a  mo 
ment  before  he  spoke.  "I  was  just  thinking,"  he 
said,  doubtfully,  "that  we  might  run  down  after 
all,  and  take  a  look  in  at  the  last  act;  it's  not  too 
late  even  now.  They're  sure  to  run  behind  on  the 
first  night.  And  then,"  he  urged,  "we  can  go 
around  and  see  Seldon.  You  have  never  been  be 
hind  the  scenes,  have  you  ?  It's  very  interesting." 

"No,  I  have  not;  but  if  we  do,"  remonstrated 
the  Picture,  pathetically,  "you  know  all  those  men 
will  come  trooping  home  with  us.  You  know  they 
will." 

"But  that's  very  complimentary,"  said  Stuart. 
"Why,  I  like  my  friends  to  like  my  wife." 

"Yes,  but  you  know  how  they  stay  when  they 
get  here,"  she  answered;  "I  don't  believe  they  ever 
sleep.  Don't  you  remember  the  last  supper  you 
gave  me  before  we  were  married,  when  Mrs.  Starr 
and  you  all  were  discussing  Mr.  Seldon's  play? 
She  didn't  make  a  move  to  go  until  half-past  two, 
and  I  was  that  sleepy  I  couldn't  keep  my  eyes 
open." 

"Yes,"  said  Stuart,  "I  remember.  I'm  sorry. 
I  thought  it  was  very  interesting.  Seldon  changed 

123 


Miss  Delamar's  Understudy 

the  whole  second  act  on  account  of  what  she  said. 
Well,  after  this,"  he  laughed  with  cheerful  des 
peration,  "I  think  I  shall  make  up  for  the  part  of 
a  married  man  in  a  pair  of  slippers  and  a  dressing- 
gown,  and  then  perhaps  I  won't  be  tempted  to 
roam  abroad  at  night." 

"You  must  wear  the  gown  they  are  going  to 
give  you  at  Oxford,"  said  the  Picture,  smiling 
placidly.  "The  one  Aunt  Lucy  was  telling  me 
about.  Why  do  they  give  you  a  gown?"  she  asked. 
"It  seems  such  an  odd  thing  to  do." 

"The  gown  comes  with  the  degree,  I  believe," 
said  Stuart. 

"But  why  do  they  give  you  a  degree?"  persisted 
the  Picture;  "you  never  studied  at  Oxford,  did 
you?" 

Stuart  moved  slightly  in  his  chair  and  shook  his 
head.  "I  thought  I  told  you,"  he  said,  gently. 
"No,  I  never  studied  there.  I  wrote  some  books 
on — things,  and  they  liked  them." 

"Oh,  yes,  I  remember  now,  you  did  tell  me," 
said  the  Picture;  "and  I  told  Aunt  Lucy  about  it, 
and  said  we  would  be  in  England  during  the  sea 
son  when  you  got  your  degree,  and  she  said  you 
must  be  awfully  clever  to  get  it.  You  see — she 
does  appreciate  you,  and  you  always  treat  her  so 
distantly." 

"Do  I?"  said  Stuart,  quietly.     "I'm  sorry." 
124 


Miss  Delamar's  Understudy 

"Will  you  have  your  portrait  painted  in  it?" 
asked  the  Picture. 

"In  what?" 

"In  the  gown.  You  are  not  listening,"  said  the 
Picture,  reproachfully.  "You  ought  to.  Aunt 
Lucy  says  it's  a  beautiful  shade  of  red  silk,  and 
very  long.  Is  it?" 

"I  don't  know,"  said  Stuart.  He  shook  his  head, 
and  dropping  his  chin  into  his  hands,  stared  coldly 
down  into  the  fire.  He  tried  to  persuade  himself 
that  he  had  been  vainglorious,  and  that  he  had 
given  too  much  weight  to  the  honor  which  the 
University  of  Oxford  would  bestow  upon  him; 
that  he  had  taken  the  degree  too  seriously,  and  that 
the  Picture's  view  of  it  was  the  view  of  the  rest 
of  the  world.  But  he  could  not  convince  himself 
that  he  was  entirely  at  fault. 

"Is  it  too  late  to  begin  on  Guizot?"  suggested 
his  Picture,  as  an  alternative  to  his  plan.  "It 
sounds  so  improving." 

"Yes,  it  is  much  too  late,"  answered  Stuart,  de 
cidedly.  "Besides,  I  don't  want  to  be  improved. 
I  want  to  be  amused,  or  inspired,  or  scolded.  The 
chief  good  of  friends  is  that  they  do  one  of  these 
three  things,  and  a  wife  should  do  all  three." 

"Which  shall  I  do?"  asked  the  Picture,  smiling 
good-humoredly. 

Stuart  looked  at  the  beautiful  face  and  at  the 
125 


Miss  Delamar's  Understudy 

reclining  figure  of  the  woman  to  whom  he  was  to 
turn  for  sympathy  for  the  rest  of  his  life,  and  felt 
a  cold  shiver  of  terror,  that  passed  as  quickly  as 
it  came.  He  reached  out  his  hand  and  placed  it 
on  the  arm  of  the  chair  where  his  wife's  hand 
should  have  been,  and  patted  the  place  kindly. 
He  would  shut  his  eyes  to  everything  but  that  she 
was  good  and  sweet  and  his  wife.  Whatever  else 
she  lacked  that  her  beauty  had  covered  up  and 
hidden,  and  the  want  of  which  had  lain  unsuspect 
ed  in  their  previous  formal  intercourse,  could  not 
be  mended  now.  He  would  settle  his  step  to  hers, 
and  eliminate  all  those  interests  from  his  life  which 
were  not  hers  as  well.  He  had  chosen  a  beautiful 
idol,  and  not  a  companion,  for  a  wife.  He  had 
tried  to  warm  his  hands  at  the  fire  of  a  diamond. 
Stuart's  eyes  closed  wearily  as  though  to  shut 
out  the  memories  of  the  past,  or  the  foreknowledge 
of  what  the  future  was  sure  to  be.  His  head  sank 
forward  on  his  breast,  and  with  his  hand  shading 
his  eyes,  he  looked  beyond,  through  the  dying  fire, 
into  the  succeeding  years. 

The  gay  little  French  clock  on  the  table  sounded 
the  hour  of  midnight  briskly,  with  a  pert  insistent 
clamor,  and  at  the  same  instant  a  boisterous  and 
unruly  knocking  answered  it  from  outside  the  li 
brary  door. 

126 


Miss  Delamar's  Understudy 

Stuart  rose  uncertainly  from  his  chair  and  sur 
veyed  the  tiny  clock  face  with  a  startled  expression 
of  bewilderment  and  relief. 

"Stuart !"  his  friends  called  impatiently  from  the 
hall.  "Stuart,  let  us  in!"  and  without  waiting  fur 
ther  for  recognition  a  merry  company  of  gentle 
men  pushed  their  way  noisily  into  the  room. 

"Where  the  devil  have  you  been?"  demanded 
Weimer.  "You  don't  deserve  to  be  spoken  to  at 
all  after  quitting  us  like  that.  But  Seldon  is  so 
good-natured,"  he  went  on,  "that  he  sent  us  after 
you.  It  was  a  great  success,  and  he  made  a  rattling 
good  speech,  and  you  missed  the  whole  thing;  and 
you  ought  to  be  ashamed  of  yourself.  We've 
asked  half  the  people  in  front  to  supper — two 
stray  Englishmen,  all  the  Wilton  girls  and  their 
governor,  and  the  chap  that  wrote  the  play.  And 
Seldon  and  his  brother  Sam  are  coming  as  soon 
as  they  get  their  make-up  off.  Don't  stand  there 
like  that,  but  hurry.  What  have  you  been  doing?" 

Stuart  gave  a  nervous,  anxious  laugh.  "Oh, 
don't  ask  me,"  he  cried.  "It  was  awful.  I've 
been  trying  an  experiment,  and  I  had  to  keep  it 
up  until  midnight,  and — I'm  so  glad  you  fellows 
have  come,"  he  continued,  halting  midway  in  his 
explanation.  "I  was  blue." 

"You've  been  asleep  in  front  of  the  fire,"  said 
young  Sloane,  "and  you've  been  dreaming." 

127 


Miss  Delamar's  Understudy 

"Perhaps,"  laughed  Stuart,  gayly,  "perhaps. 
But  I'm  awake  now,  in  any  event.  Sloane,  old 
man,"  he  cried,  dropping  both  hands  on  the  young 
ster's  shoulders,  "how  much  money  have  you? 
Enough  to  take  me  to  Gibraltar?  They  can  cable 
me  the  rest." 

"Hoorah!"  shouted  Sloane,  waltzing  from  one 
end  of  the  room  to  the  other.  "And  we're  off  to 
Ab-yss-in-ia  in  the  morn-ing,"  he  sang.  "There's 
plenty  in  my  money  belt,"  he  cried,  slapping  his 
sides;  "you  can  hear  the  ten-pound  notes  crackle 
whenever  I  breathe,  and  it's  all  yours,  my  dear 
boy,  and  welcome.  And  I'll  prove  to  you  that  the 
Winchester  is  the  better  gun." 

"All  right,"  returned  Stuart,  gayly,  "and  I'll 
try  to  prove  that  the  Italians  don't  know  how  to 
govern  a  native  state.  But  who  is  giving  this  sup 
per,  anyway?"  he  demanded.  "That  is  the  main 
thing — that's  what  I  want  to  know." 

"Ifou've  got  to  pack,  haven't  you?"  suggested 
Rives. 

"I'll  pack  when  I  get  back,"  said  Stuart,  strug 
gling  into  his  greatcoat,  and  searching  in  his  pock 
ets  for  his  gloves.  "Besides,  my  things  are  always 
ready  and  there's  plenty  of  time;  the  boat  doesn't 
leave  for  six  hours  yet." 

"We'll  all  come  back  and  help,"  said  Weimer. 

"Then  I'll  never  get  away,"  laughed  Stuart. 
128 


Miss  Delamar's  Understudy 

He  was  radiant,  happy,  and  excited,  like  a  boy 
back  from  school  for  the  holidays.  But  when  they 
had  reached  the  pavement,  he  halted  and  ran  his 
hand  down  into  his  pocket,  as  though  feeling  for 
his  latch-key,  and  stood  looking  doubtfully  at  his 
friends. 

"What  is  it  now?"  asked  Rives,  impatiently. 
"Have  you  forgotten  something?" 

Stuart  looked  back  at  the  front  door  in  mo 
mentary  indecision. 

"Ye-es,"  he  answered.  "I  did  forget  something. 
But  it  doesn't  matter,"  he  added,  cheerfully,  tak 
ing  Sloane's  arm. 

"Come  on,"  he  said,  "and  so  Seldon  made  a 
hit,  did  he?  I  am  glad — and  tell  me,  old  man, 
how  long  will  we  have  to  wait  at  Gib  for  the 
P.  &O.?" 

Stuart's  servant  had  heard  the  men  trooping 
down  the  stairs,  laughing  and  calling  to  one  an 
other  as  they  went,  and  judging  from  this  that 
they  had  departed  for  the  night,  he  put  out  all 
the  lights  in  the  library  and  closed  the  piano,  and 
lifted  the  windows  to  clear  the  room  of  the  to 
bacco-smoke.  He  did  not  cotice  the  beautiful  pho 
tograph  sitting  upright  in  the  arm-chair  before  the 
fireplace,  and  so  left  it  alone  in  the  deserted  li 
brary. 

The  cold  night-air  swept  in  through  the  open 
129 


Miss  Delamar's  Understudy 

wirJow  and  chilled  the  silent  room,  and  the  dead 
coals  in  the  grate  dropped  one  by  one  into  the 
fender  with  a  dismal  echoing  clatter;  but  the 
Picture  still  sat  in  the  arm-chair  with  the  same 
graceful  pose  and  the  same  lovely  expression, 
and  smiled  sweetly  at  the  encircling  darkness. 


130 


ON  THE  FEVER  SHIP 


On  the  Fever  Ship 

THERE  were  four  rails  around  the  ship's 
sides,  the  three  lower  ones  of  iron  and 
the  one  on  top  of  wood,  and  as  he  looked  between 
them  from  the  canvas  cot  he  recognized  them  as 
the  prison-bars  which  held  him  in.  Outside  his 
prison  lay  a  stretch  of  blinding  blue  water  which 
ended  in  a  line  of  breakers  and  a  yellow  coast  with 
ragged  palms.  Beyond  that  again  rose  a  range 
of  mountain-peaks,  and,  stuck  upon  the  loftiest 
peak  of  all,  a  tiny  block-house.  It  rested  on  the 
brow  of  the  mountain  against  the  naked  sky  as 
impudently  as  a  cracker-box  set  upon  the  dome  of 
a  great  cathedral. 

As  the  transport  rode  on  her  anchor-chains,  the 
iron  bars  around  her  sides  rose  and  sank  and  di 
vided  the  landscape  with  parallel  lines.  From  his 
cot  the  officer  followed  this  phenomenon  with  se 
vere,  painstaking  interest.  Sometimes  the  wooden 
rail  swept  up  to  the  very  block-house  itself,  and 
for  a  second  of  time  blotted  it  from  sight.  And 

133 


On  the  Fever  Ship 

again  it  sank  to  the  level  of  the  line  of  breakers, 
and  wiped  them  out  of  the  picture  as  though  they 
were  a  line  of  chalk. 

The  soldier  on  the  cot  promised  himself  that 
the  next  swell  of  the  sea  would  send  the  lowest 
rail  climbing  to  the  very  top  of  the  palm-trees  or, 
even  higher,  to  the  base  of  the  mountains;  and 
when  it  failed  to  reach  even  the  palm-trees  he  felt 
a  distinct  sense  of  ill  use,  of  having  been  wronged 
by  someone.  There  was  no  other  reason  for  sub 
mitting  to  this  existence  save  these  tricks  upon  the 
wearisome,  glaring  landscape;  and  now,  whoever 
it  was  who  was  working  them  did  not  seem  to  be 
making  this  effort  to  entertain  him  with  any  hearti 
ness. 

It  was  most  cruel.  Indeed,  he  decided  hotly,  it 
was  not  to  be  endured ;  he  would  bear  it  no  longer, 
he  would  make  his  escape.  But  he  knew  that  this 
move,  which  could  be  conceived  in  a  moment's 
desperation,  could  only  be  carried  to  success  with 
great  strategy,  secrecy,  and  careful  cunning.  So 
he  fell  back  upon  his  pillow  and  closed  his  eyes,  as 
though  he  were  asleep,  and  then  opening  them 
again,  turned  cautiously,  and  spied  upon  his  keep 
er.  As  usual,  his  keeper  sat  at  the  foot  of  the  cot 
turning  the  pages  of  a  huge  paper  filled  with 
pictures  of  the  war  printed  in  daubs  of  tawdry 
colors.  His  keeper  was  a  hard-faced  boy  without 


On  the  Fever  Ship 

human  pity  or  consideration,  a  very  devil  of  ob 
stinacy  and  fiendish  cruelty.  To  make  it  worse, 
the  fiend  was  a  person  without  a  collar,  in  a  suit  of 
soiled  khaki,  with  a  curious  red  cross  bound  by  a 
safety-pin  to  his  left  arm.  He  was  intent  upon  the 
paper  in  his  hands;  he  was  holding  it  between  his 
eyes  and  his  prisoner.  His  vigilance  had  relaxed, 
and  the  moment  seemed  propitious.  With  a  sud 
den  plunge  of  arms  and  legs,  the  prisoner  swept 
the  bed-sheet  from  him,  and  sprang  at  the  wooden 
rail  and  grasped  the  iron  stanchion  beside  it.  He 
had  his  knee  pressed  against  the  top  bar  and  his 
bare  toes  on  the  iron  rail  beneath  it.  Below  him 
the  blue  water  waited  for  him.  It  was  cool  and 
dark  and  gentle  and  deep.  It  would  certainly  put 
out  the  fire  in  his  bones,  he  thought;  it  might  even 
shut  out  the  glare  of  the  sun  which  scorched  his 
eyeballs. 

But  as  he  balanced  for  the  leap,  a  swift  weak 
ness  and  nausea  swept  over  him,  a  weight  seized 
upon  his  body  and  limbs.  He  could  not  lift  the 
lower  foot  from  the  iron  rail,  and  he  swayed  diz 
zily  and  trembled.  He  trembled.  He  who  had 
raced  his  men  and  beaten  them  up  the  hot  hill  to 
the  trenches  of  San  Juan.  But  now  he  was  a  baby 
in  the  hands  of  a  giant,  who  caught  him  by  the 
wrist  and  with  an  iron  arm  clasped  him  around 
his  waist  and  pulled  him  down,  and  shouted,  bru- 

135 


On  the  Fever  Ship 

tally,  "Help,  some  of  youse,  quick!  he's  at  it 
again.  I  can't  hold  him." 

More  giants  grasped  him  by  the  arms  and  b) 
the  legs.  One  of  them  took  the  hand  that  clung 
to  the  stanchion  in  both  of  his,  and  pulled  back 
the  fingers  one  by  one,  saying,  "Easy  now,  Lieu 
tenant — easy." 

The  ragged  palms  and  the  sea  and  block-house 
were  swallowed  up  in  a  black  fog,  and  his  body 
touched  the  canvas  cot  again  with  a  sense  of  home 
coming  and  relief  and  rest.  He  wondered  how  he 
could  have  cared  to  escape  from  it.  He  found  it 
so  good  to  be  back  again  that  for  a  long  time  he 
wept  quite  happily,  until  the  fiery  pillow  was  moist 
and  cool. 

The  world  outside  of  the  iron  bars  was  like  a 
scene  in  a  theatre  set  for  some  great  event,  but  the 
actors  were  never  ready.  He  remembered  con 
fusedly  a  play  he  had  once  witnessed  before  that 
same  scene.  Indeed,  he  believed  he  had  played 
some  small  part  in  it ;  but  he  remembered  it  dimly, 
and  all  trace  of  the  men  who  had  appeared  with 
him  in  it  was  gone.  He  had  reasoned  it  out  that 
they  were  up  there  behind  the  range  of  mountains, 
because  great  heavy  wagons  and  ambulances  and 
cannon  were  emptied  from  the  ships  at  the  wharf 
above  and  were  drawn  away  in  long  lines  behind 
the  ragged  palms,  moving  always  toward  the  passes 

136 


On  the  Fever  Ship 

between  the  peaks.  At  times  he  was  disturbed  by 
the  thought  that  he  should  be  up  and  after  them, 
that  some  tradition  of  duty  made  his  presence  with 
them  imperative.  There  was  much  to  be  done 
back  of  the  mountains.  Some  event  of  momentous 
import  was  being  carried  forward  there,  in  which 
he  held  a  part;  but  the  doubt  soon  passed  from 
him,  and  he  was  content  to  lie  and  watch  the  iron 
bars  rising  and  falling  between  the  block-house  and 
the  white  surf. 

If  they  had  been  only  humanely  kind,  his  lot 
would  have  been  bearable,  but  they  starved  him 
and  held  him  down  when  he  wished  to  rise;  and 
they  would  not  put  out  the  fire  in  the  pillow,  which 
they  might  easily  have  done  by  the  simple  expedi 
ent  of  throwing  it  over  the  ship's  side  into  the  sea. 
He  himself  had  done  this  twice,  but  the  keeper 
had  immediately  brought  a  fresh  pillow  already 
heated  for  the  torture  and  forced  it  under  his  head. 

His  pleasures  were  very  simple,  and  so  few  that 
he  could  not  understand  why  they  robbed  him  of 
them  so  jealously.  One  was  to  watch  a  green  clus 
ter  of  bananas  that  hung  above  him  from  the  awn 
ing,  twirling  on  a  string.  He  could  count  as  many 
of  them  as  five  before  the  bunch  turned  and  swung 
lazily  back  again,  when  he  could  count  as  high  as 
twelve;  sometimes  when  the  ship  rolled  heavily  he 
could  count  to  twenty.  It  was  a  most  fascinating 

137 


» 

On  the  Fever  Ship 

game,  and  contented  him  for  many  hours.  But 
when  they  found  this  out  they  sent  for  the  cook 
to  come  and  cut  them  down,  and  the  cook  carried 
them  away  to  his  galley. 

Then,  one  day,  a  man  came  out  from  the  shore, 
swimming  through  the  blue  water  with  great 
splashes.  He  was  a  most  charming  man,  who 
spluttered  and  dove  and  twisted  and  lay  on  his 
back  and  kicked  his  legs  in  an  excess  of  content 
and  delight.  It  was  a  real  pleasure  to  watch  him ; 
not  for  days  had  anything  so  amusing  appeared  on 
the  other  side  of  the  prison-bars.  But  as  soon  as 
the  keeper  saw  that  the  man  in  the  water  was 
amusing  his  prisoner,  he  leaned  over  the  ship's 
side  and  shouted,  "Sa-ay,  you,  don't  you  know 
there's  sharks  in  there?" 

And  the  swimming  man  said,  "The  h — 11  there 
is!"  and  raced  back  to  the  shore  like  a  porpoise 
with  great  lashing  of  the  water,  and  ran  up  the 
beach  half-way  to  the  palms  before  he  was  satis 
fied  to  stop.  Then  the  prisoner  wept  again.  It 
was  so  disappointing.  Life  was  robbed  of  every 
thing  now.  He  remembered  that  in  a  previous 
existence  soldiers  who  cried  were  laughed  at  and 
mocked.  But  that  was  so  far  away  and  it  was  such 
an  absurd  superstition  that  he  had  no  patience  with 
it.  For  what  could  be  more  comforting  to  a  man 
when  he  is  treated  cruelly  than  to  cry.  It  was  so 

138 


On  the  Fever  Ship 

obvious  an  exercise,  and  when  one  is  so  feeble 
that  one  cannot  vault  a  four-railed  barrier  it  is 
something  to  feel  that  at  least  one  is  strong  enough 
to  cry. 

He  escaped  occasionally,  traversing  space  with 
marvellous  rapidity  and  to  great  distances,  but 
never  to  any  successful  purpose;  and  his  flight  in 
evitably  ended  in  ignominious  recapture  and  a  sud 
den  awakening  in  bed.  At  these  moments  the 
familiar  and  hated  palms,  the  peaks,  and  the  block 
house  were  more  hideous  in  their  reality  than  the 
most  terrifying  of  his  nightmares. 

These  excursions  afield  were  always  predatory; 
he  went  forth  always  to  seek  food.  With  all  the 
beautiful  world  from  which  to  elect  and  choose, 
he  sought  out  only  those  places  where  eating  was 
studied  and  elevated  to  an  art.  These  visits  were 
much  more  vivid  in  their  detail  than  any  he  had 
ever  before  made  to  these  same  resorts.  They 
invariably  began  in  a  carriage,  which  carried  him 
swiftly  over  smooth  asphalt.  One  route  brought 
him  across  a  great  and  beautiful  square,  radiating 
with  rows  and  rows  of  flickering  lights;  two  foun 
tains  splashed  in  the  centre  of  the  square,  and  six 
women  of  stone  guarded  its  approaches.  One  of 
the  women  was  hung  with  wreaths  of  mourning. 
Ahead  of  him  the  late  twilight  darkened  behind 
a  great  arch,  which  seemed  to  rise  on  the  horizon 

139 


On  the  Fever  Ship 

of  the  world,  a  great  window  into  the  heavens  be 
yond.  At  either  side  strings  of  white  and  colored 
globes  hung  among  the  trees,  and  the  sound  of 
music  came  joyfully  from  theatres  in  the  open  air. 
He  knew  the  restaurant  under  the  trees  to  which 
he  was  now  hastening,  and  the  fountain  beside  it, 
and  the  very  sparrows  balancing  on  the  fountain's 
edge;  he  knew  every  waiter  at  each  of  the  tables, 
he  felt  again  the  gravel  crunching  under  his  feet, 
he  saw  the  maitre  d'hotel  coming  forward  smiling 
to  receive  his  command,  and  the  waiter  in  the  green 
apron  bowing  at  his  elbow,  deferential  and  im 
portant,  presenting  the  list  of  wines.  But  his  ad 
venture  never  passed  that  point,  for  he  was  capt 
ured  again  and  once  more  bound  to  his  cot  with 
a  close  burning  sheet. 

Or  else,  he  drove  more  sedately  through  the 
London  streets  in  the  late  evening  twilight,  leaning 
expectantly  across  the  doors  of  the  hansom  and 
pulling  carefully  at  his  white  gloves.  Other  han 
soms  flashed  past  him,  the  occupant  of  each  with 
his  mind  fixed  on  one  idea — dinner.  He  was  one 
of  a  million  of  people  who  were  about  to  dine, 
or  who  had  dined,  or  who  were  deep  in  dining. 
He  was  so  famished,  so  weak  for  food  of  any  qual 
ity,  that  the  galloping  horse  in  the  hansom  seemed 
to  crawl.  The  lights  of  the  Embankment  passed 
like  the  lamps  of  a  railroad  station  as  seen  from 

140 


On  the  Fever  Ship 

the  window  of  an  express;  and  while  his  mind 
was  still  torn  between  the  choice  of  a  thin  or  thick 
soup  or  an  immediate  attack  upon  cold  beef,  he 
was  at  the  door,  and  the  chasseur  touched  his  cap, 
and  the  little  chasseur  put  the  wicker  guard  over 
the  hansom's  wheel.  As  he  jumped  out  he  said, 
"Give  him  half-a-crown,"  and  the  driver  called 
after  him,  "Thank  you,  sir." 

It  was  a  beautiful  world,  this  world  outside  of 
the  iron  bars.  Everyone  in  it  contributed  to  his 
pleasure  and  to  his  comfort.  In  this  world  he  was 
not  starved  nor  man-handled.  He  thought  of  this 
joyfully  as  he  leaped  up  the  stairs,  where  young 
men  with  grave  faces  and  with  their  hands  held 
negligently  behind  their  backs  bowed  to  him  in  po 
lite  surprise  at  his  speed.  But  they  had  not  been 
starved  on  condensed  milk.  He  threw  his  coat 
and  hat  at  one  of  them,  and  came  down  the  hall 
fearfully  and  quite  weak  with  dread  lest  it  should 
not  be  real.  His  voice  was  shaking  when  he  asked 
Ellis  if  he  had  reserved  a  table.  The  place  was 
all  so  real,  it  must  be  true  this  time.  The  way 
Ellis  turned  and  ran  his  finger  down  the  list  showed 
it  was  real,  because  Ellis  always  did  that,  even 
when  he  knew  there  would  not  be  an  empty  table 
for  an  hour.  The  room  was  crowded  with  beau 
tiful  women;  under  the  light  of  the  red  shades 
they  looked  kind  and  approachable,  and  there  was 

141 


On  the  Fever  Ship 

food  on  every  table,  and  iced  drinks  in  silver  buck 
ets.  It  was  with  the  joy  of  great  relief  that  he 
heard  Ellis  say  to  his  underling,  "Numero  cinq, 
sur  la  terrace,  un  couvert."  It  was  real  at  last. 
Outside,  the  Thames  lay  a  great  gray  shadow. 
The  lights  of  the  Embankment  flashed  and  twin 
kled  across  it,  the  tower  of  the  House  of  Com 
mons  rose  against  the  sky,  and  here,  inside,  the 
waiter  was  hurrying  toward  him  carrying  a  smok 
ing  plate  of  rich  soup  with  a  pungent,  intoxicating 
odor. 

And  then  the  ragged  palms,  the  glaring  sun, 
the  immovable  peaks,  and  the  white  surf  stood 
again  before  him.  The  iron  rails  swept  up  and 
sank  again,  the  fever  sucked  at  his  bones,  and  the 
pillow  scorched  his  cheek. 

One  morning  for  a  brief  moment  he  came  back 
to  real  life  again  and  lay  quite  still,  seeing  every 
thing  about  him  with  clear  eyes  and  for  the  first 
time,  as  though  he  had  but  just  that  instant  been 
lifted  over  the  ship's  side.  His  keeper,  glancing 
up,  found  the  prisoner's  eyes  considering  him 
curiously,  and  recognized  the  change.  The  in 
stinct  of  discipline  brought  him  to  his  feet  with 
his  fingers  at  his  sides. 

"Is  the  Lieutenant  feeling  better?" 

The  Lieutenant  surveyed  him  gravely. 

"You  are  one  of  our  hospital  stewards.'* 
142 


On  the  Fever  Ship 

"Yes,  Lieutenant." 

"Why  ar'n't  you  with  the  regiment?" 

"I  was  wounded,  too,  sir.  I  got  it  same  time 
you  did,  Lieutenant." 

"Am  I  wounded?  Of  course,  I  remember.  Is 
this  a  hospital  ship?" 

The  steward  shrugged  his  shoulders.  "She's 
one  of  the  transports.  They  have  turned  her  over 
to  the  fever  cases." 

The  Lieutenant  opened  his  lips  to  ask  another 
question ;  but  his  own  body  answered  that  one,  and 
for  a  moment  he  lay  silent. 

"Do  they  know  up  North  that  I — that  I'm  all 
right?" 

"Oh,  yes,  the  papers  had  it  in — there  was  pict 
ures  of  the  Lieutenant  in  some  of  them." 

"Then  I've  been  ill  some  time?" 

"Oh,  about  eight  days." 

The  soldier  moved  uneasily,  and  the  nurse  in 
him  became  uppermost. 

"I  guess  the  Lieutenant  hadn't  better  talk  any 
more,"  he  said.  It  was  his  voice  now  which  held 
authority. 

The  Lieutenant  looked  out  at  the  palms  and 
the  silent  gloomy  mountains  and  the  empty  coast 
line,  where  the  same  wave  was  rising  and  falling 
with  weary  persistence. 

"Eight  days,"  he  said.  His  eyes  shut  quickly, 
143 


On  the  Fever  Ship 

as  though  with  a  sudden  touch  of  pain.  He  turned 
his  head  and  sought  for  the  figure  at  the  foot  of 
the  cot.  Already  the  figure  had  grown  faint  and 
was  receding  and  swaying. 

"Has  anyone  written  or  cabled?"  the  Lieuten 
ant  spoke,  hurriedly.  He  was  fearful  lest  the 
figure  should  disappear  altogether  before  he  could 
obtain  his  answer.  "Has  anyone  come?" 

"Why,  they  couldn't  get  here,  Lieutenant,  not 
yet." 

The  voice  came  very  faintly.  "You  go  to 
sleep  now,  and  I'll  run  and  fetch  some  letters  and 
telegrams.  When  you  wake  up,  maybe  I'll  have 
a  lot  for  you." 

But  the  Lieutenant  caught  the  nurse  by  the 
wrist,  and  crushed  his  hand  in  his  own  thin  fin 
gers.  They  were  hot,  and  left  the  steward's  skin 
wet  with  perspiration.  The  Lieutenant  laughed 
gayly.  - 1 

"You  see,  Doctor,"  he  said,  briskly,  "that  you 
can't  kill  me.  I  can't  die.  I've  got  to  live,  you 
understand.  Because,  sir,  she  said  she  would 
come.  She  said  if  I  was  wounded,  or  if  I  was  ill, 
she  would  come  to  me.  She  didn't  care  what 
people  thought.  She  would  come  anyway  and 
nurse  me — well,  she  will  come. 

"So,  Doctor — old  man — "  He  plucked  at  the 
steward's  sleeve,  and  stroked  his  hand  eagerly, 

144 


On  the  Fever  Ship 

"old  man — "  he  began  again,  beseechingly,  "you'll 
not  let  me  die  until  she  comes,  will  you?  What? 
No,  I  know  I  won't  die.  Nothing  made  by  man 
can  kill  me.  No,  not  until  she  comes.  Then,  after 
that — eight  days,  she'll  be  here  soon,  any  moment? 
What?  You  think  so,  too?  Don't  you?  Surely, 
yes,  any  moment.  Yes,  I'll  go  to  sleep  now,  and 
when  you  see  her  rowing  out  from  shore  you  wake 
me.  You'll  know  her;  you  can't  make  a  mistake. 
She  is  like — no,  there  is  no  one  like  her — but  you 
can't  make  a  mistake." 

That  day  strange  figures  began  to  mount  the 
sides  of  the  ship,  and  to  occupy  its  every  turn  and 
angle  of  space.  Some  of  them  fell  on  their  knees 
and  slapped  the  bare  deck  with  their  hands,  and 
laughed  and  cried  out,  "Thank  God,  I'll  see  God's 
country  again!"  Some  of  them  were  regulars, 
bound  in  bandages;  some  were  volunteers,  dirty 
and  hollow-eyed,  with  long  beards  on  boys'  faces. 
Some  came  on  crutches;  others  with  their  arms 
around  the  shoulders  of  their  comrades,  staring 
ahead  of  them  with  a  fixed  smile,  their  lips  drawn 
back  and  their  teeth  protruding.  At  every  second 
step  they  stumbled,  and  the  face  of  each  was  swept 
by  swift  ripples  of  pain. 

They  lay  on  cots  so  close  together  that  the  nurses 
could  not  walk  between  them.  They  lay  on  the 
wet  decks,  in  the  scuppers,  and  along  the  transoms 

145 


On  the  Fever  Ship 

and  hatches.  They  were  like  shipwrecked  mari 
ners  clinging  to  a  raft,  and  they  asked  nothing 
more  than  that  the  ship's  bow  be  turned  toward 
home.  Once  satisfied  as  to  that,  they  relaxed  into 
a  state  of  self-pity  and  miserable  oblivion  to  their 
environment,  from  which  hunger  nor  nausea  nor 
aching  bones  could  shake  them. 

The  hospital  steward  touched  the  Lieutenant 
lightly  on  the  shoulder. 

"We  are  going  North,  sir,"  he  said.  "The 
transport's  ordered  North  to  New  York,  with 
these  volunteers  and  the  sick  and  wounded.  Do 
you  hear  me,  sir?" 

The  Lieutenant  opened  his  eyes.  "Has  she 
come?"  he  asked. 

"Gee!"  exclaimed  the  hospital  steward.  He 
glanced  impatiently  at  the  blue  mountains  and  the 
yellow  coast,  from  which  the  transport  was  draw 
ing  rapidly  away. 

"Well,  I  can't  see  her  coming  just  now,"  he 
said.  "But  she  will,"  he  added. 

"You  let  me  know  at  once  when  she  comes." 

"Why,  cert'nly,  of  course,"  said  the  steward. 

Three  trained  nurses  came  over  the  side  just 
before  the  transport  started  North.  One  was  a 
large,  motherly  looking  woman,  with  a  German 
accent.  She  had  been  a  trained  nurse,  first  in  Ber 
lin,  and  later  in  the  London  Hospital  in  White- 

146 


On  the  Fever  Ship 

chapel,  and  at  Bellevue.  The  nurse  was  dressed 
in  white,  and  wore  a  little  silver  medal  at  her 
throat;  and  she  was  strong  enough  to  lift  a  vol 
unteer  out  of  his  cot  and  hold  him  easily  in  her 
arms,  while  one  of  the  convalescents  pulled  his 
cot  out  of  the  rain.  Some  of  the  men  called  her 
"nurse";  others,  who  wore  scapulars  around  their 
necks,  called  her  "Sister";  and  the  officers  of  the 
medical  staff  addressed  her  as  Miss  Bergen. 

Miss  Bergen  halted  beside  the  cot  of  the  Lieu 
tenant  and  asked,  "Is  this  the  fever  case  you  spoke 
about,  Doctor — the  one  you  want  moved  to  the 
officers'  ward?"  She  slipped  her  hand  up  under 
his  sleeve  and  felt  his  wrist. 

"His  pulse  is  very  high,"  she  said  to  the  stew 
ard.  "When  did  you  take  his  temperature  ?"  She 
drew  a  little  morocco  case  from  her  pocket  and 
from  that  took  a  clinical  thermometer,  which  she 
shook  up  and  down,  eying  the  patient  meanwhile 
with  a  calm,  impersonal  scrutiny.  The  Lieutenant 
raised  his  head  and  stared  up  at  the  white  figure 
beside  his  cot.  His  eyes  opened  and  then  shut 
quickly,  with  a  startled  look,  in  which  doubt  strug 
gled  with  wonderful  happiness.  His  hand  stole 
out  fearfully  and  warily  until  it  touched  her  apron, 
and  then,  finding  it  was  real,  he  clutched  it  des 
perately,  and  twisting  his  face  and  body  toward 
her,  pulled  her  down,  clasping  her  hands  in  both 

147 


On  the  Fever  Ship 

of  his,  and  pressing  them  close  to  his  face  and 
eyes  and  lips.  He  put  them  from  him  for  an  in 
stant,  and  looked  at  her  through  his  tears. 

"Sweetheart,"  he  whispered,  "sweetheart,  I 
knew  you'd  come." 

As  the  nurse  knelt  on  the  deck  beside  him,  her 
thermometer  slipped  from  her  fingers  and  broke, 
and  she  gave  an  exclamation  of  annoyance.  The 
young  Doctor  picked  up  the  pieces  and  tossed  them 
overboard.  Neither  of  them  spoke,  but  they 
smiled  appreciatively.  The  Lieutenant  was  look 
ing  at  the  nurse  with  the  wonder  and  hope  and 
hunger  of  soul  in  his  eyes  with  which  a  dying  man 
looks  at  the  cross  the  priest  holds  up  before  him. 
What  he  saw  where  the  German  nurse  was  kneel 
ing  was  a  tall,  fair  girl  with  great  bands  and 
masses  of  hair,  with  a  head  rising  like  a  lily  from 
a  firm,  white  throat,  set  on  broad  shoulders  above 
a  straight  back  and  sloping  breast — a  tall,  beauti 
ful  creature,  half-girl,  half-woman,  who  looked 
back  at  him  shyly,  but  steadily. 

"Listen,"  he  said. 

The  voice  of  the  sick  man  was  so  sure  and  so  sane 
that  the  young  Doctor  started,  and  moved  nearer 
to  the  head  of  the  cot.  "Listen,  dearest,"  the 
Lieutenant  whispered.  "I  wanted  to  tell  you  be 
fore  I  came  South.  But  I  did  not  dare;  and  then 
J  was  afraid  something  might  happen  to  me,  and 

148 


On  the  Fever  Ship 

I  could  never  tell  you,  and  you  would  never  know. 
So  I  wrote  it  to  you  in  the  will  I  made  at  Baiquiri, 
the  night  before  the  landing.  If  you  hadn't  come 
now,  you  would  have  learned  it  in  that  way.  You 
would  have  read  there  that  there  never  was  any 
one  but  you ;  the  rest  were  all  dream  people,  fool 
ish,  silly — mad.  There  is  no  one  else  in  the  world 
but  you;  you  have  been  the  only  thing  in  life  that 
has  counted.  I  thought  I  might  do  something 
down  here  that  would  make  you  care.  But  I  got 
shot  going  up  a  hill,  and  after  that  I  wasn't  able 
to  do  anything.  It  was  very  hot,  and  the  hills 
were  on  fire;  and  they  took  me  prisoner,  and  kept 
me  tied  down  here,  burning  on  these  coals.  I  can't 
live  much  longer,  but  now  that  I  have  told  you  I 
can  have  peace.  They  tried  to  kill  me  before  you 
came;  but  they  didn't  know  I  loved  you,  they 
didn't  know  that  men  who  love  you  can't  die. 
They  tried  to  starve  my  love  for  you,  to  burn  it 
out  of  me;  they  tried  to  reach  it  with  their  knives. 
But  my  love  for  you  is  my  soul,  and  they  can't  kill 
a  man's  soul.  Dear  heart,  I  have  lived  because 
you  lived.  Now  that  you  know — now  that  you 
understand — what  does  it  matter?" 

Miss  Bergen  shook  her  head  with  great  vigor. 
"Nonsense,"  she  said,  cheerfully.  "You  are  not 
going  to  die.  As  soon  as  we  move  you  out  of  this 

rain,  and  some  food  cook " 

149 


On  the  Fever  Ship 

"Good  God!"  cried  the  young  Doctor,  savage 
ly.  "Do  you  want  to  kill  him?" 

When  she  spoke,  the  patient  had  thrown  his 
arms  heavily  across  his  face,  and  had  fallen  back, 
lying  rigid  on  the  pillow. 

The  Doctor  led  the  way  across  the  prostrate 
bodies,  apologizing  as  he  went.  "I  am  sorry  I 
spoke  so  quickly,"  he  said,  "but  he  thought  you 
were  real.  I  mean  he  thought  you  were  some 
one  he  really  knew " 

"He  was  just  delirious,"  said  the  German  nurse, 
calmly. 

The  Doctor  mixed  himself  a  Scotch  and  soda 
and  drank  it  with  a  single  gesture. 

"Ugh!"  he  said  to  the  ward-room.  "I  feel  as 
though  I'd  been  opening  another  man's  letters." 

The  transport  drove  through  the  empty  seas 
with  heavy,  clumsy  upheavals,  rolling  like  a  buoy. 
Having  been  originally  intended  for  the  freight- 
carrying  trade,  she  had  no  sympathy  with  hearts 
that  beat  for  a  sight  of  their  native  land,  or  for 
lives  that  counted  their  remaining  minutes  by  the 
throbbing  of  her  engines.  Occasionally,  without 
apparent  reason,  she  was  thrown  violently  from 
her  course;  but  it  was  invariably  the  case  that  when 
her  stern  went  to  starboard,  something  splashed 
in  the  water  on  her  port  side  and  drifted  past  her, 

150 


On  the  Fever  Ship 

until,  when  it  had  cleared  the  blades  of  her  pro 
peller,  a  voice  cried  out,  and  she  was  swung  back 
on  her  home-bound  track  again. 

The  Lieutenant  missed  the  familiar  palms  and 
the  tiny  block-house;  and  seeing  nothing  beyond 
the  iron  rails  but  great  wastes  of  gray  water,  he 
decided  he  was  on  board  a  prison-ship,  or  that  he 
had  been  strapped  to  a  raft  and  cast  adrift.  Peo 
ple  came  for  hours  at  a  time  and  stood  at  the  foot 
of  his  cot,  and  talked  with  him  and  he  to  them — 
people  he  had  loved  and  people  he  had  long  for 
gotten,  some  of  whom  he  had  thought  were  dead. 
One  of  them  he  could  have  sworn  he  had  seen 
buried  in  a  deep  trench,  and  covered  with  branches 
of  palmetto.  He  had  heard  the  bugler,  with  tears 
choking  him,  sound  "taps";  and  with  his  own  hand 
he  had  placed  the  dead  man's  campaign  hat  on  the 
mound  of  fresh  earth  above  the  grave.  Yet  here 
he  was  still  alive,  and  he  came  with  other  men 
of  his  troop  to  speak  to  him ;  but  when  he  reached 
out  to  them  they  were  gone — the  real  and  the  un 
real,  the  dead  and  the  living — and  even  She  dis 
appeared  whenever  he  tried  to  take  her  hand,  and 
sometimes  the  hospital  steward  drove  her  away. 

"Did  that  young  lady  say  when  she  was  coming 
back  again?"  he  asked  the  steward. 

"The  young  lady!  What  young  lady?"  asked 
the  steward,  wearily. 


On  the  Fever  Ship 

"The  one  who  has  been  sitting  there,"  he  an 
swered.  He  pointed  with  his  gaunt  hand  at  the 
man  in  the  next  cot. 

"Oh,  that  young  lady.  Yes,  she's  coming  back. 
She's  just  gone  below  to  fetch  you  some  hard 
tack." 

The  young  volunteer  in  the  next  cot  whined 
grievously. 

"That  crazy  man  gives  me  the  creeps,"  he 
groaned.  "He's  always  waking  me  up,  and  look 
ing  at  me  as  though  he  was  going  to  eat  me." 

"Shut  your  head,"  said  the  steward.  "He's  a 
better  man  crazy  than  you'll  ever  be  with  the  little 
sense  you've  got.  And  he  has  two  Mauser  holes 
in  him.  Crazy,  eh?  It's  a  damned  good  thing 
for  you  that  there  was  about  four  thousand  of  us 
regulars  just  as  crazy  as  him,  or  you'd  never  seen 
the  top  of  the  hill." 

One  morning  there  was  a  great  commotion  on 
deck,  and  all  the  convalescents  balanced  themselves 
on  the  rail,  shivering  in  their  pajamas,  and  pointed 
one  way.  The  transport  was  moving  swiftly  and 
•smoothly  through  water  as  flat  as  a  lake,  and 
making  a  great  noise  with  her  steam-whistle.  The 
noise  was  echoed  by  many  more  steam- whistles; 
and  the  ghosts  of  out-bound  ships  and  tugs  and 
excursion  steamers  ran  past  her  out  of  the  mist 
and  disappeared,  saluting  joyously.  All  of  the 

152 


On  the  Fever  Ship 

excursion  steamers  had  a  heavy  list  to  the  side 
nearest  the  transport,  and  the  ghosts  on  them 
crowded  to  that  rail  and  waved  handkerchiefs  and 
cheered.  The  fog  lifted  suddenly,  and  between 
the  iron  rails  the  Lieutenant  saw  high  green  hills 
on  either  side  of  a  great  harbor.  Houses  and  trees 
and  thousands  of  masts  swept  past  like  a  pano 
rama;  and  beyond  was  a  mirage  of  three  cities, 
with  curling  smoke-wreaths  and  sky-reaching  build 
ings,  and  a  great  swinging  bridge,  and  a  giant 
statue  of  a  woman  waving  a  welcome  home. 

The  Lieutenant  surveyed  the  spectacle  with  cyn 
ical  disbelief.  He  was  far  too  wise  and  far  too 
cunning  to  be  bewitched  by  it.  In  his  heart  he 
pitied  the  men  about  him,  who  laughed  wildly, 
and  shouted,  and  climbed  recklessly  to  the  rails 
and  ratlines.  He  had  been  deceived  too  often  not 
to  know  that  it  was  not  real.  He  knew  from  cruel 
experience  that  in  a  few  moments  the  tall  buildings 
would  crumble  away,  the  thousands  of  columns  of 
white  smoke  that  flashed  like  snow  in  the  sun,  the 
busy,  shrieking  tug-boats,  and  the  great  statue 
would  vanish  into  the  sea,  leaving  it  gray  and  bare. 
He  closed  his  eyes  and  shut  the  vision  out.  It  was 
so  beautiful  that  it  tempted  him;  but  he  would 
not  be  mocked,  and  he  buried  his  face  in  his  hands. 
They  were  carrying  the  farce  too  far,  he  thought. 
It  was  really  too  absurd;  for  now  they  were  at  a 

153 


On  the  Fever  Ship 

wharf  which  was  so  real  that,  had  he  not  known 
by  previous  suffering,  he  would  have  been  utterly 
deceived  by  it.  And  there  were  great  crowds  of 
smiling,  cheering  people,  and  a  waiting  guard  of 
honor  in  fresh  uniforms,  and  rows  of  police  push 
ing  the  people  this  way  and  that;  and  these  men 
about  him  were  taking  it  all  quite  seriously,  and 
making  ready  to  disembark,  carrying  their  blan 
ket-rolls  and  rifles  with  them. 

A  band  was  playing  joyously,  and  the  man  in 
the  next  cot,  who  was  being  lifted  to  a  stretcher, 
said,  "There's  the  Governor  and  his  staff;  that's 
him  in  the  high  hat."  It  was  really  very  well  done. 
The  Custom-house  and  the  Elevated  Railroad  and 
Castle  Garden  were  as  like  to  life  as  a  photograph, 
and  the  crowd  was  as  well  handled  as  a  mob  in 
a  play.  His  heart  ached  for  it  so  that  he  could 
not  bear  the  pain,  and  he  turned  his  back  on  it. 
It  was  cruel  to  keep  it  up  so  long.  His  keeper 
lifted  him  in  his  arms,  and  pulled  him  into  a  dirty 
uniform  which  had  belonged,  apparently,  to  a 
much  larger  man — a  man  who  had  been  killed 
probably,  for  there  were  dark-brown  marks  of 
blood  on  the  tunic  and  breeches.  When  he  tried 
to  stand  on  his  feet,  Castle  Garden  and  the  Bat 
tery  disappeared  in  a  black  cloud  of  night,  just  as 
he  knew  they  would;  but  when  he  opened  his  eyes 
from  the  stretcher,  they  had  returned  again.  It 

154 


On  the  Fever  Ship 

was  a  most  remarkably  vivid  vision.  They  kept 
it  up  so  well.  Now  the  young  Doctor  and  the 
hospital  steward  were  pretending  to  carry  him 
down  a  gangplank  and  into  an  open  space;  and  he 
saw  quite  close  to  him  a  long  line  of  policemen, 
and  behind  them  thousands  of  faces,  some  of  them 
women's  faces — women  who  pointed  at  him  and 
then  shook  their  heads  and  cried,  and  pressed  their 
hands  to  their  cheeks,  still  looking  at  him.  He 
wondered  why  they  cried.  He  did  not  know  them, 
nor  did  they  know  him.  No  one  knew  him;  these 
people  were  only  ghosts. 

There  was  a  quick  parting  in  the  crowd.  A 
man  he  had  once  known  shoved  two  of  the  police 
men  to  one  side,  and  he  heard  a  girl's  voice  speak 
ing  his  name,  like  a  sob;  and  She  came  running 
out  across  the  open  space  and  fell  on  her  knees 
beside  the  stretcher,  and  bent  down  over  him,  and 
he  was  clasped  in  two  young,  firm  arms. 

"Of  course  it  is  not  real,  of  course  it  is  not  She," 
he  assured  himself.  "Because  She  would  not  do 
such  a  thing.  Before  all  these  people  She  would 
not  do  it." 

But  he  trembled  and  his  heart  throbbed  so 
cruelly  that  he  could  not  bear  the  pain. 

She  was  pretending  to  cry. 

"They  wired  us  you  had  started  for  Tampa  on 
the  hospital  ship,"  She  was  saying,  "and  Aunt  and 

155 


On  the  Fever  Ship 

I  went  all  the  way  there  before  we  heard  you  had 
been  sent  North.  We  have  been  on  the  cars  a 
week.  That  is  why  I  missed  you.  Do  you  un 
derstand?  It  was  not  my  fault.  I  tried  to  come. 
Indeed,  I  tried  to  come." 

She  turned  her  head  and  looked  up  fearfully 
at  the  young  Doctor. 

"Tell  me,  why  does  he  look  at  me  like  that?" 
she  asked.  "He  doesn't  know  me.  Is  he  very  ill? 
Tell  me  the  truth."  She  drew  in  her  breath  quick 
ly.  "Of  course  you  will  tell  me  the  truth." 

When  she  asked  the  question  he  felt  her  arms 
draw  tight  about  his  shoulders.  It  was  as  though 
she  was  holding  him  to  herself,  and  from  some 
one  who  had  reached  out  for  him.  In  his  trouble 
he  turned  to  his  old  friend  and  keeper.  His  voice 
was  hoarse  and  very  low. 

"Is  this  the  same  young  lady  who  was  on  the 
transport — the  one  you  used  to  drive  away?" 

In  his  embarrassment,  the  hospital  steward 
blushed  under  his  tan,  and  stammered. 

"Of  course  it's  the  same  young  lady,"  the  Doc 
tor  answered,  briskly.  "And  I  won't  let  them 
drive  her  away."  He  turned  to  her,  smiling 
gravely.  "I  think  his  condition  has  ceased  to  be 
dangerous,  madam,"  he  said. 

People  who  in  a  former  existence  had  been  his 
friends,  and  Her  brother,  gathered  about  his 

156 


On  the  Fever  Ship 

stretcher  and  bore  him  through  the  crowd  and 
lifted  him  into  a  carriage  filled  with  cushions, 
among  which  he  sank  lower  and  lower.  Then  She 
sat  beside  him,  and  he  heard  Her  brother  say  to 
the  coachman,  "Home,  and  drive  slowly  and  keep 
on  the  asphalt." 

The  carriage  moved  forward,  and  She  put  her 
arm  about  him,  and  his  head  fell  on  her  shoulder, 
and  neither  of  them  spoke.  The  vision  had  lasted 
so  long  now  that  he  was  torn  with  the  joy  that 
after  all  it  might  be  real.  But  he  could  not  bear 
the  awakening  if  it  were  not,  so  he  raised  his  head 
fearfully  and  looked  up  into  the  beautiful  eyes 
above  him.  His  brows  were  knit,  and  he  strug 
gled  with  a  great  doubt  and  an  awful  joy. 

"Dearest,"  he  said,  "is  it  real?" 

"Is  it  real?"  she  repeated. 

Even  as  a  dream,  it  was  so  wonderfully  beau 
tiful  that  he  was  satisfied  if  it  could  only  continue 
so,  if  but  for  a  little  while. 

"Do  you  think,"  he  begged  again,  trembling, 
"that  it  is  going  to  last  much  longer?" 

She  smiled,  and,  bending  her  head  slowly,  kissed 
him. 

"It  is  going  to  last — always,"  she  said. 


157 


THE  MAN  WITH  ONE 
TALENT 


The  Man  with  One  Talent 

THE  mass-meeting  in  the  Madison  Square 
Garden  which  was  to  help  set  Cuba  free 
was  finished,  and  the  people  were  pushing  their 
way  out  of  the  overheated  building  into  the  snow 
and  sleet  of  the  streets.  They  had  been  greatly 
stirred  and  the  spell  of  the  last  speaker  still  hung 
so  heavily  upon  them  that  as  they  pressed  down 
the  long  corridor  they  were  still  speaking  loudly 
in  his  praise. 

A  young  man  moved  eagerly  among  them,  and 
pushed  his  way  to  wherever  a  voice  was  raised 
above  the  rest.  He  strained  forward,  listening 
openly,  as  though  he  tried  to  judge  the  effect  of 
the  meeting  by  the  verdict  of  those  about  him. 

But  the  words  he  overheard  seemed  to  clash 
with  what  he  wished  them  to  be,  and  the  eager 
look  on  his  face  changed  to  one  of  doubt  and  of 
grave  disappointment.  When  he  had  reached  the 
sidewalk  he  stopped  and  stood  looking  back  alter 
nately  into  the  lighted  hall  and  at  the  hurrying 
crowds  which  were  dispersing  rapidly.  He  made 
a  movement  as  though  he  would  recall  them,  as 

161 


The  Man  with  One  Talent 

though  he  felt  they  were  still  unconvinced,  as 
though  there  was  much  still  left  unsaid. 

A  fat  stranger  halted  at  his  elbow  to  light  his 
cigar,  and  glancing  up  nodded  his  head  approv 
ingly. 

"Fine  speaker,  Senator  Stanton,  ain't  he?"  he 
said. 

The  young  man  answered  eagerly.  "Yes,"  he 
assented,  "he  is  a  great  orator,  but  how  could  he 
help  but  speak  well  with  such  a  subject?" 

"Oh,  you  ought  to  have  heard  him  last  Novem 
ber  at  Tammany  Hall,"  the  fat  stranger  answered. 
"He  wasn't  quite  up  to  himself  to-night.  He 
wasn't  so  interested.  Those  Cubans  are  foreign 
ers,  you  see,  but  you  ought  to  have  heard  him  last 
St.  Patrick's  day  on  Home  Rule  for  Ireland.  Then 
he  was  talking!  That  speech  made  him  a  United 
States  senator,  I  guess.  I  don't  just  see  how  he 
expects  to  win  out  on  this  Cuba  game.  The  Cu 
bans  haven't  got  no  votes." 

The  young  man  opened  his  eyes  in  some  bewil 
derment. 

"He  speaks  for  the  good  of  Cuba,  for  the  sake 
of  humanity,"  he  ventured. 

"What?"  inquired  the  fat  stranger.  "Oh,  yes, 
of  course.  Well,  I  must  be  getting  on.  Good 
night,  sir." 

The  stranger  moved  on  his  way,  but  the  young 
162 


The  Man  with  One  Talent 

man  still  lingered  uncertainly  in  the  snow-swept 
corridor,  shivering  violently  with  the  cold  and 
stamping  his  feet  for  greater  comfort.  His  face 
was  burned  to  a  deep  red,  which  seemed  to  have 
come  from  some  long  exposure  to  a  tropical  sun, 
but  which  held  no  sign  of  health.  His  cheeks  were 
hollow  and  his  eyes  were  lighted  with  the  fire  of 
fever,  and  from  time  to  time  he  was  shaken  by 
violent  bursts  of  coughing  which  caused  him  to 
reach  toward  one  of  the  pillars  for  support. 

As  the  last  of  the  lights  went  out  in  the  Garden, 
the  speaker  of  the  evening  and  three  of  his  friends 
came  laughing  and  talking  down  the  long  corridor. 
Senator  Stanton  was  a  conspicuous  figure  at  any 
time,  and  even  in  those  places  where  his  portraits 
had  not  penetrated  he  was  at  once  recognized  as 
a  personage.  Something  in  his  erect  carriage  and 
an  unusual  grace  of  movement,  and  the  power  and 
success  in  his  face,  made  men  turn  to  look  at  him. 
He  had  been  told  that  he  resembled  the  early  por 
traits  of  Henry  Clay,  and  he  had  never  quite  for 
gotten  the  coincidence. 

The  senator  was  wrapping  the  collar  of  his  fur 
coat  around  his  throat  and  puffing  contentedly  at 
a  fresh  cigar,  and  as  he  passed,  the  night-watch 
man  and  the  ushers  bowed  to  the  great  man  and 
stood  looking  after  him  with  the  half-humorous, 
half-envious  deference  that  the  American  voter 

163 


The  Man  with  One  Talent 

pays  to  the  successful  politician.  At  the  sidewalk, 
the  policemen  hurried  to  open  the  door  of  his  car 
riage,  and  in  their  eagerness  made  a  double  line, 
through  which  he  passed  nodding  to  them  grave 
ly.  The  young  man  who  had  stood  so  long  in  wait 
ing  pushed  his  way  through  the  line  to  his  side. 

"Senator  Stanton,"  he  began  timidly,  "might 
I  speak  to  you  a  moment?  My  name  is  Ark- 
wright;  I  am  just  back  from  Cuba,  and  I  want 
to  thank  you  for  your  speech.  I  am  an  American, 
and  I  thank  God  that  I  am  since  you  are  too,  sir. 
No  one  has  said  anything  since  the  war  began  that 
compares  with  what  you  said  to-night.  You  put 
it  nobly,  and  I  know,  for  I've  been  there  for  three 
years,  only  I  can't  make  other  people  understand 
it,  and  I  am  thankful  that  someone  can.  You'll 
forgive  my  stopping  you,  sir,  but  I  wanted  to 
thank  you.  I  feel  it  very  much." 

Senator  Stanton's  friends  had  already  seated 
themselves  in  his  carriage  and  were  looking  out 
of  the  door  and  smiling  with  mock  patience.  But 
the  senator  made  no  move  to  follow  them. 
Though  they  were  his  admirers  they  were  some 
times  sceptical,  and  he  was  not  sorry  that  they 
should  hear  this  uninvited  tribute.  So  he  made 
a  pretence  of  buttoning  his  long  coat  about  him, 
and  nodded  encouragingly  to  Arkwright  to  con 
tinue.  "I'm  glad  you  liked  it,  sir,"  he  said  with 

164 


The  Man  with  One  Talent 

the  pleasant,  gracious  smile  that  had  won  him  a 
friend  wherever  it  had  won  him  a  vote.  "It  is 
very  satisfactory  to  know  from  one  who  is  well 
informed  on  the  subject  that  what  I  have  said  is 
correct.  The  situation  there  is  truly  terrible.  You 
have  just  returned,  you  say?  Where  were  you — 
in  Havana?" 

"No,  in  the  other  provinces,  sir,"  Arkwright 
answered.  "I  have  been  all  over  the  island;  I  am 
a  civil  engineer.  The  truth  has  not  been  half  told 
about  Cuba,  I  assure  you,  sir.  It  is  massacre 
there,  not  war.  It  is  partly  so  through  ignorance, 
but  nevertheless  it  is  massacre.  And  what  makes 
it  worse  is,  that  it  is  the  massacre  of  the  innocents. 
That  is  what  I  liked  best  of  what  you  said  in  that 
great  speech,  the  part  about  the  women  and  chil 
dren." 

He  reached  out  his  hands  detainingly,  and  then 
drew  back  as  though  in  apology  for  having  al 
ready  kept  the  great  man  so  long  waiting  in  the 
cold.  "I  wish  I  could  tell  you  some  of  the  terrible 
things  I  have  seen,"  he  began  again,  eagerly,  as 
Stanton  made  no  movement  to  depart.  "They  are 
much  worse  than  those  you  instanced  to-night,  and 
you  could  make  so  much  better  use  of  them  than 
anyone  else.  I  have  seen  starving  women  nursing 
dead  babies,  and  sometimes  starving  babies  suck 
ing  their  dead  mothers'  breasts;  I  have  seen  men 

165 


The  Man  with  One  Talent 

cut  down  in  the  open  roads  and  while  digging  in 
the  fields — and  two  hundred  women  imprisoned 
in  one  room  without  food  and  eaten  with  small 
pox,  and  huts  burned  while  the  people  in  them 
slept " 

The  young  man  had  been  speaking  impetuous 
ly,  but  he  stopped  as  suddenly,  for  the  senator 
was  not  listening  to  him.  He  had  lowered  his 
eyes  and  was  looking  with  a  glance  of  mingled 
fascination  and  disgust  at  Arkwright's  hands.  In 
his  earnestness  the  young  man  had  stretched  them 
out,  and  as  they  showed  behind  the  line  of  his 
ragged  sleeves  the  others  could  see,  even  in  the 
blurred  light  and  falling  snow,  that  the  wrists  of 
each  hand  were  gashed  and  cut  in  dark-brown  lines 
like  the  skin  of  a  mulatto,  and  in  places  were  a 
raw  red,  where  the  fresh  skin  had  but  just  closed 
over.  The  young  man  paused  and  stood  shiver 
ing,  still  holding  his  hands  out  rigidly  before  him. 

The  senator  raised  his  eyes  slowly  and  drew 
away. 

"What  is  that?"  he  said  in  a  low  voice,  point 
ing  with  a  gloved  finger  at  the  black  lines  on  the 
wrists. 

A  sergeant  in  the  group  of  policemen  who  had 
closed  around  the  speakers  answered  him  prompt 
ly  from  his  profound  fund  of  professional  knowl 
edge. 

166 


The  Man  with  One  Talent 

"That's  handcuffs,  senator,"  he  said  important 
ly,  and  glanced  at  Stanton  as  though  to  signify 
that  at  a  word  from  him  he  would  take  this  sus 
picious  character  into  custody.  The  young  man 
pulled  the  frayed  cuffs  of  his  shirt  over  his  wrists 
and  tucked  his  hands,  which  the  cold  had  frozen 
into  an  ashy  blue,  under  his  armpits  to  warm  them. 

"No,  they  don't  use  handcuffs  in  the  field,"  he 
said  in  the  same  low,  eager  tone;  "they  use  ropes 
and  leather  thongs;  they  fastened  me  behind  a 
horse,  and  when  he  stumbled  going  down  the  trail 
it  jerked  me  forward  and  the  cords  would  tighten 
and  tear  the  flesh.  But  they  have  had  a  long  time 
to  heal  now.  I  have  been  eight  months  in  prison." 

The  young  men  at  the  carriage  window  had 
ceased  smiling  and  were  listening  intently.  One 
of  them  stepped  out  and  stood  beside  the  carriage 
door  looking  down  at  the  shivering  figure  before 
him  with  a  close  and  curious  scrutiny. 

"Eight  months  in  prison !"  echoed  the  police 
sergeant  with  a  note  of  triumph;  "what  did  I  tell 
you?" 

"Hold  your  tongue !"  said  the  young  man  at  the 
carriage  door.  There  was  silence  for  a  moment, 
while  the  men  looked  at  the  senator,  as  though 
waiting  for  him  to  speak. 

"Where  were  you  in  prison,  Mr.  Arkwright?" 
he  asked. 

167 


The  Man  with  One  Talent 

"First  in  the  calaboose  at  Santa  Clara  for  two 
months,  and  then  in  Cabanas.  The  Cubans  who 
were  taken  when  I  was  were  shot  by  the  fusillade 
on  different  days  during  this  last  month.  Two  of 
them,  the  Ezetas,  were  father  and  son,  and  the 
Volunteer  band  played  all  the  time  the  execution 
was  going  on,  so  that  the  other  prisoners  might 
not  hear  them  cry  'Cuba  Libre!'  when  the  order 
came  to  fire.  But  we  heard  them." 

The  senator  shivered  slightly  and  pulled  his  fur 
collar  up  farther  around  his  face.  "I'd  like  to 
talk  with  you,"  he  said,  "if  you  have  nothing  to 
do  to-morrow.  I'd  like  to  go  into  this  thing  thor~ 
oughly.  Congress  must  be  made  to  take  some 
action." 

The  young  man  clasped  his  hands  eagerly. 
"Ah,  Mr.  Stanton,  if  you  would,"  he  cried,  "if 
you  would  only  give  me  an  hour !  I  could  tell  you 
so  much  that  you  could  use.  And  you  can  believe 
what  I  say,  sir — it  is  not  necessary  to  lie — God 
knows  the  truth  is  bad  enough.  I  can  give  you 
names  and  dates  for  everything  I  say.  Or  I  can 
do  better  than  that,  sir.  I  can  take  you  there 
yourself — in  three  months  I  can  show  you  all  you 
need  to  see,  without  danger  to  you  in  any  way. 
And  they  would  not  know  me,  now  that  I  have 
grown  a  beard,  and  I  am  a  skeleton  to  what  I 
was.  I  can  speak  the  language  well,  and  I  know 

168 


The  Man  with  One  Talent 

just  what  you  should  see,  and  then  you  could  come 
back  as  one  speaking  with  authority  and  not  have 
to  say,  'I  have  read,'  or  'have  been  told,'  but  you 
can  say,  'These  are  the  things  I  have  seen' — and 
you  could  free  Cuba." 

The  senator  coughed  and  put  the  question  aside 
for  the  moment  with  a  wave  of  the  hand  that  held 
his  cigar.  "We  will  talk  of  that  to-morrow  also. 
Come  to  lunch  with  me  at  one.  My  apartments 
are  in  the  Berkeley  on  Fifth  Avenue.  But  aren't 
you  afraid  to  go  back  there?"  he  asked  curiously. 
"I  should  think  you'd  had  enough  of  it.  And 
you've  got  a  touch  of  fever,  haven't  you?"  He 
leaned  forward  and  peered  into  the  other's  eyes. 

"It  is  only  the  prison  fever,"  the  young  man 
answered;  "food  and  this  cold  will  drive  that  out 
of  me.  And  I  must  go  back.  There  is  so  much 
to  do  there,"  he  added.  "Ah,  if  I  could  tell  them, 
as  you  can  tell  them,  what  I  feel  here."  He 
struck  his  chest  sharply  with  his  hand,  and  on  the 
instant  fell  into  a  fit  of  coughing  so  violent  that 
the  young  man  at  the  carriage  door  caught  him 
around  the  waist,  and  one  of  the  policemen  sup 
ported  him  from  the  other  side. 

"You  need  a  doctor,"  said  the  senator,  kindly. 
"I'll  ask  mine  to  have  a  look  at  you.  Don't  for 
get,  then,  at  one  o'clock  to-morrow.  We  will  go 
into  this  thing  thoroughly."  He  shook  Arkwright 

169 


The  Man  with  One  Talent 

warmly  by  the  hand  and,  stooping,  stepped  into  the 
carriage.  The  young  man  who  had  stood  at  the 
door  followed  him  and  crowded  back  luxuriously 
against  the  cushions.  The  footman  swung  himself 
up  beside  the  driver,  and  said  "Uptown  Delmon- 
ico's,"  as  he  wrapped  the  fur  rug  around  his  legs, 
and  with  a  salute  from  the  policemen  and  a  scrap 
ing  of  hoofs  on  the  slippery  asphalt  the  great  man 
was  gone. 

"That  poor  fellow  needs  a  doctor,"  he  said  as 
the  carriage  rolled  up  the  avenue,  "and  he  needs 
an  overcoat,  and  he  needs  food.  He  needs  about 
almost  everything,  by  the  looks  of  him." 

But  the  voice  of  the  young  man  in  the  corner 
of  the  carriage  objected  drowsily — 

"On  the  contrary,"  he  said,  "it  seemed  to  me 
that  he  had  the  one  thing  needful." 

By  one  o'clock  of  the  day  following,  Senator 
Stanton,  having  read  the  reports  of  his  speech  in 
the  morning  papers,  punctuated  with  "Cheers," 
"Tremendous  enthusiasm"  and  more  "Cheers," 
was  still  in  a  willing  frame  of  mind  toward  Cuba 
and  her  self-appointed  envoy,  young  Mr.  Ark- 
wright. 

Over  night  he  had  had  doubts  but  that  the 
young  man's  enthusiasm  would  bore  him  on  the 
morrow,  but  Mr.  Arkwright,  when  he  appeared, 
developed,  on  the  contrary,  a  practical  turn  of 

170 


The  Man  with  One  Talent 

mind  which  rendered  his  suggestions  both  flatter 
ing  and  feasible.  He  was  still  terribly  in  earnest, 
but  he  was  clever  enough  or  serious  enough  to  see 
that  the  motives  which  appealed  to  him  might  not 
have  sufficient  force  to  move  a  successful  statesman 
into  action.  So  he  placed  before  the  senator  only 
those  arguments  and  reasons  which  he  guessed 
were  the  best  adapted  to  secure  his  interest  and  his 
help.  His  proposal  as  he  set  it  forth  was  sim 
plicity  itself. 

"Here  is  a  map  of  the  island,"  he  said;  "on  it 
I  have  marked  the  places  you  can  visit  in  safety, 
and  where  you  will  meet  the  people  you  ought  to 
see.  If  you  leave  New  York  at  midnight  you  can 
reach  Tampa  on  the  second  day.  From  Tampa 
we  cross  in  another  day  to  Havana.  There  you 
can  visit  the  Americans  imprisoned  in  Morro  and 
Cabanas,  and  in  the  streets  you  can  see  the  starving 
pacificos.  From  Havana  I  shall  take  you  by  rail 
to  Jucaro,  Matanzas,  Santa  Clara  and  Cienfuegos. 
You  will  not  be  able  to  see  the  insurgents  in  the 
fields — it  is  not  necessary  that  you  should — but 
you  can  visit  one  of  the  sugar  plantations  and 
some  of  the  insurgent  chiefs  will  run  the  forts  by 
night  and  come  in  to  talk  with  you.  I  will  show 
you  burning  fields  and  houses,  and  starving  men 
and  women  by  the  thousands,  and  men  and  women 
dying  of  fevers.  You  can  see  Cuban  prisoners 

171 


The  Man  with  One  Talent 

shot  by  a  firing  squad  and  you  can  note  how  these 
rebels  meet  death.  You  can  see  all  this  in  three 
weeks  and  be  back  in  New  York  in  a  month,  as 
anyone  can  see  it  who  wishes  to  learn  the  truth. 
Why,  English  members  of  Parliament  go  all  the 
way  to  India  and  British  Columbia  to  inform 
themselves  about  those  countries,  they  travel  thou 
sands  of  miles,  but  only  one  member  of  either  of 
our  houses  of  Congress  has  taken  the  trouble  to 
cross  these  eighty  miles  of  water  that  lie  between 
us  and  Cuba.  You  can  either  go  quietly  and  in 
cognito,  as  it  were,  or  you  can  advertise  the  fact 
of  your  going,  which  would  be  better.  And  from 
the  moment  you  start  the  interest  in  your  visit 
will  grow  and  increase  until  there  will  be  no  topic 
discussed  in  any  of  our  papers  except  yourself,  and 
what  you  are  doing  and  what  you  mean  to  do. 

"By  the  time  you  return  the  people  will  be  wait 
ing,  ready  and  eager  to  hear  whatever  you  may 
have  to  say.  Your  word  will  be  the  last  word  for 
them.  It  is  not  as  though  you  were  some  dema 
gogue  seeking  notoriety,  or  a  hotel  piazza  corre 
spondent  at  Key  West  or  Jacksonville.  You  are 
the  only  statesman  we  have,  the  only  orator  Amer 
icans  will  listen  to,  and  I  tell  you  that  when  you 
come  before  them  and  bring  home  to  them  as  only 
you  can  the  horrors  of  this  war,  you  will  be  the 
only  man  in  this  country.  You  will  be  the  Patrick 

172 


The  Man  with  One  Talent 

Henry  of  Cuba ;  you  can  go  down  to  history  as  the 
man  who  added  the  most  beautiful  island  in  the 
seas  to  the  territory  of  the  United  States,  who 
saved  thousands  of  innocent  children  and  women, 
and  who  dared  to  do  what  no  other  politician 
has  dared  to  do — to  go  and  see  for  himself 
and  to  come  back  and  speak  the  truth.  It  only 
means  a  month  out  of  your  life,  a  month's  trouble 
and  discomfort,  but  with  no  risk.  What  is  a  month 
out  of  a  lifetime,  when  that  month  means  immor 
tality  to  you  and  life  to  thousands?  In  a  month 
you  would  make  a  half  dozen  after-dinner  speeches 
and  cause  your  friends  to  laugh  and  applaud. 
Why  not  wring  their  hearts  instead,  and  hold  this 
thing  up  before  them  as  it  is,  and  shake  it  in  their 
faces?  Show  it  to  them  in  all  its  horror — bleed 
ing,  diseased  and  naked,  an  offence  to  our  human 
ity,  and  to  our  prated  love  of  liberty,  and  to  our 
God." 

The  young  man  threw  himself  eagerly  forward 
and  beat  the  map  with  his  open  palm.  But  the 
senator  sat  apparently  unmoved,  gazing  thought 
fully  into  the  open  fire,  and  shook  his  head. 

While  the  luncheon  was  in  progress  the  young 
gentleman  who  the  night  before  had  left  the  car 
riage  and  stood  at  Arkwright's  side  had  entered 
the  room  and  was  listening  intently.  He  had  in 
vited  himself  to  some  fresh  coffee,  and  had  then 
relapsed  into  an  attentive  silence,  following  what 

173 


The  Man  with  One  Talent 

the  others  said  with  an  amused  and  interested  coun 
tenance.  Stanton  had  introduced  him  as  Mr.  Liv 
ingstone,  and  appeared  to  take  it  for  granted  that 
Arkwright  would  know  who  he  was.  He  seemed 
to  regard  him  with  a  certain  deference  which  Ark 
wright  judged  was  due  to  some  fixed  position  the 
young  man  held,  either  of  social  or  of  political 
value. 

"I  do  not  know,"  said  Stanton  with  considera 
tion,  "that  I  am  prepared  to  advocate  the  annex 
ation  of  the  island.  It  is  a  serious  problem." 

"I  am  not  urging  that,"  Arkwright  interrupted 
anxiously;  "the  Cubans  themselves  do  not  agree 
as  to  that,  and  in  any  event  it  is  an  afterthought. 
Our  object  now  should  be  to  prevent  further  blood 
shed.  If  you  see  a  man  beating  a  boy  to  death, 
you  first  save  the  boy's  life  and  decide  afterward 
where  he  is  to  go  to  school.  If  there  were  any 
one  else,  senator,"  Arkwright  continued  earnestly, 
"I  would  not  trouble  you.  But  we  all  know  your 
strength  in  this  country.  You  are  independent 
and  fearless,  and  men  of  both  parties  listen  to  you. 
Surely,  God  has  given  you  this  great  gift  of  ora 
tory  (if  you  will  forgive  my  speaking  so)  to  use 
only  in  a  great  cause.  A  grand  organ  in  a  cathe 
dral  is  placed  there  to  lift  men's  thoughts  to  high 
resolves  and  purposes,  not  to  make  people  dance. 
A  street  organ  can  do  that  Now,  here  is  a  cause 

174 


The  Man  with  One  Talent 

worthy  of  your  great  talents,  worthy  of  a  Daniel 
Webster,  of  a  Henry  Clay." 

The  senator  frowned  at  the  fire  and  shook  his 
head  doubtfully. 

"If  they  knew  what  I  was  down  there  for,"  he 
asked,  "wouldn't  they  put  me  in  prison  too?" 

Arkwright  laughed  incredulously. 

"Certainly  not,"  he  said;  "you  would  go  there 
as  a  private  citizen,  as  a  tourist  to  look  on  and 
observe.  Spain  is  not  seeking  complications  of 
that  sort.  She  has  troubles  enough  without  im 
prisoning  United  States  senators." 

"Yes;  but  these  fevers  now,"  persisted  Stanton, 
"they're  no  respecter  of  persons,  I  imagine.  A 
United  States  senator  is  not  above  small-pox  or 
cholera." 

Arkwright  shook  his  head  impatiently  and 
sighed. 

"It  is  difficult  to  make  it  clear  to  one  who  has 
not  been  there,"  he  said.  "These  people  and  sol 
diers  are  dying  of  fever  because  they  are  forced 
to  live  like  pigs,  and  they  are  already  sick  with 
starvation.  A  healthy  man  like  yourself  would 
be  in  no  more  danger  than  you  would  be  in  walk 
ing  through  the  wards  of  a  New  York  hospital." 

Senator  Stanton  turned  in  his  arm-chair,  and 
held  up  his  hand  impressively. 

"If  I  were  to  tell  them  the  things  you  have 


The  Man  with  One  Talent 

told  me,"  he  said  warningly;  "if  I  were  to  say  I 
have  seen  such  things — American  property  in 
flames,  American  interests  ruined,  and  that  five 
times  as  many  women  and  children  have  died  of 
fever  and  starvation  in  three  months  in  Cuba  as 
the  Sultan  has  massacred  in  Armenia  in  three 
years — it  would  mean  war  with  Spain." 

"Well?"  said  Arkwright. 

Stanton  shrugged  his  shoulders  and  sank  back 
again  in  his  chair. 

"It  would  either  mean  war,"  Arkwright  went 
on,  "or  it  might  mean  the  sending  of  the  Red 
Cross  army  to  Cuba.  It  went  to  Constantinople, 
five  thousand  miles  away,  to  help  the  Armenian 
Christians — why  has  it  waited  three  years  to  go 
eighty  miles  to  feed  and  clothe  the  Cuban  women 
and  children  ?  It  is  like  sending  help  to  a  hungry 
peasant  in  Russia  while  a  man  dies  on  your  door 
step." 

"Well,  said  the  senator,  rising,  "I  will  let  you 
know  to-morrow.  If  it  is  the  right  thing  to  do, 
and  if  I  can  do  it,  of  course  it  must  be  done.  We 
start  from  Tampa,  you  say?  I  know  the  presi 
dents  of  all  of  those  roads  and  they'll  probably 
give  me  a  private  car  for  the  trip  down.  Shall 
we  take  any  newspaper  men  with  us,  or  shall  I 
wait  until  I  get  back  and  be  interviewed?  What 
do  you  think?" 

176 


The  Man  with  One  Talent 

"I  would  wait  until  my  return,"  Arkwright  an« 
swered,  his  eyes  glowing  with  the  hope  the  sena 
tor's  words  had  inspired,  "and  then  speak  to  a 
mass-meeting  here  and  in  Boston  and  in  Chicago. 
Three  speeches  will  be  enough.  Before  you  have 
finished  your  last  one  the  American  warships  will 
be  in  the  harbor  of  Havana." 

"Ah,  youth,  youth!"  said  the  senator,  smiling 
gravely,  "it  is  no  light  responsibility  to  urge  a 
country  into  war." 

"It  is  no  light  responsibility,"  Arkwright  an 
swered,  "to  know  you  have  the  chance  to  save  the 
lives  of  thousands  of  little  children  and  helpless 
women  and  to  let  the  chance  pass." 

"Quite  so,  that  is  quite  true,"  said  the  senator. 
"Well,  good-morning.  I  shall  let  you  know  to 
morrow." 

Young  Livingstone  went  down  in  the  elevator 
with  Arkwright,  and  when  they  had  reached  the 
sidewalk  stood  regarding  him  for  a  moment  in 
silence. 

"You  mustn't  count  too  much  on  Stanton,  you 
know,"  he  said  kindly;  "he  has  a  way  of  disap 
pointing  people." 

"Ah,  he  can  never  disappoint  me,"  Arkwright 
answered  confidently,  "no  matter  how  much  I  ex 
pected.  Besides,  I  have  already  heard  him 
speak." 

177 


The  Man  with  One  Talent 

"I  don't  mean  that;  I  don't  mean  he  is  disap 
pointing  as  a  speaker.  Stanton  is  a  great  orator, 
I  think.  Most  of  those  Southerners  are,  and  he's 
the  only  real  orator  I  ever  heard.  But  what  I 
mean  is,  that  he  doesn't  go  into  things  impulsive 
ly  ;  he  first  considers  himself,  and  then  he  considers 
every  other  side  of  the  question  before  he  commits 
himself  to  it.  Before  he  launches  out  on  a  popu 
lar  wave  he  tries  to  find  out  where  it  is  going  to 
land  him.  He  likes  the  sort  of  popular  wave  that 
carries  him  along  with  it  where  everyone  can  see 
him;  he  doesn't  fancy  being  hurled  up  on  the 
beach  with  his  mouth  full  of  sand." 

"You  are  saying  that  he  is  selfish,  self-seeking?" 
Arkwright  demanded,  with  a  challenge  in  his  voice. 
"I  thought  you  were  his  friend." 

"Yes,  he  is  selfish,  and  yes,  I  am  his  friend," 
the  young  man  answered,  smiling;  "at  least,  he 
seems  willing  to  be  mine.  I  am  saying  nothing 
against  him  that  I  have  not  said  to  him.  If  you'll 
come  back  with  me  up  the  elevator  I'll  tell  him 
he's  a  self-seeker  and  selfish,  and  with  no  thought 
above  his  own  interests.  He  won't  mind.  He'd 
say  I  cannot  comprehend  his  motives.  Why, 
you've  only  to  look  at  his  record.  When  the 
Venezuelan  message  came  out  he  attacked  the 
President  and  declared  he  was  trying  to  make  po 
litical  capital  and  to  drag  us  into  war,  and  that 

178 


The  Man  with  One  Talent 

what  we  wanted  was  arbitration;  but  when  the 
President  brought  out  the  Arbitration  Treaty  he 
attacked  that  too  in  the  Senate  and  destroyed  it. 
Why?  Not  because  he  had  convictions,  but  be 
cause  the  President  had  refused  a  foreign  appoint 
ment  to  a  friend  of  his  in  the  South.  He  has 
been  a  free-silver  man  for  the  last  ten  years,  he 
comes  from  a  free-silver  state,  and  the  members 
of  the  legislature  that  elected  him  were  all  for 
silver,  but  this  last  election  his  Wall  Street  friends 
got  hold  of  him  and  worked  on  his  feelings,  and 
he  repudiated  his  party,  his  state,  and  his  con 
stituents,  and  came  out  for  gold." 

"Well,  but  surely,"  Arkwright  objected,  "that 
took  courage?  To  own  that  for  ten  years  you 
had  been  wrong,  and  to  come  out  for  the  right 
at  the  last." 

Livingstone  stared  and  shrugged  his  shoulders. 
"It's  all  a  question  of  motives,"  he  said  indiffer 
ently.  "I  don't  want  to  shatter  your  idol;  I  only 
want  to  save  you  from  counting  too  much  on 
him." 

When  Arkwright  called  on  the  morrow  Senator 
Stanton  was  not  at  home,  and  the  day  following 
he  was  busy,  and  could  give  him  only  a  brief  in 
terview.  There  were  previous  engagements  and 
other  difficulties  in  the  way  of  his  going  which  he 
had  not  foreseen,  he  said,  and  he  feared  he  should 

179 


The  Man  with  One  Talent 

have  to  postpone  his  visit  to  Cuba  indefinitely. 
He  asked  if  Mr.  Arkwright  would  be  so  kind  as 
to  call  again  within  a  week;  he  would  then  be 
better  able  to  give  him  a  definite  answer. 

Arkwright  left  the  apartment  with  a  sensation 
of  such  keen  disappointment  that  it  turned  him 
ill  and  dizzy.  He  felt  that  the  great  purpose  of 
his  life  was  being  played  with  and  put  aside.  But 
he  had  not  selfish  resentment  on  his  own  account; 
he  was  only  the  more  determined  to  persevere. 
He  considered  new  arguments  and  framed  new 
appeals;  and  one  moment  blamed  himself  bitterly 
for  having  foolishly  discouraged  the  statesman 
by  too  vivid  pictures  of  the  horrors  he  might  en 
counter,  and  the  next,  questioned  if  he  had  not 
been  too  practical  and  so  failed  because  he  had 
not  made  the  terrible  need  of  immediate  help  his 
sole  argument.  Every  hour  wasted  in  delay  meant, 
as  he  knew,  the  sacrifice  of  many  lives,  and  there 
were  other,  more  sordid  and  more  practical,  rea 
sons  for  speedy  action.  For  his  supply  of  money 
was  running  low  and  there  was  now  barely  enough 
remaining  to  carry  him  through  the  month  of 
travel  he  had  planned  to  take  at  Stanton's  side. 
What  would  happen  to  him  when  that  momentous 
trip  was  over  was  of  no  consequence.  He  would 
have  done  the  work  as  far  as  his  small  share  in  it 
lay,  he  would  have  set  in  motion  a  great  power 

180 


The  Man  with  One  Talent 

that  was  to  move  Congress  and  the  people  of  the 
United  States  to  action.  If  he  could  but  do  that, 
what  became  of  him  counted  for  nothing. 

But  at  the  end  of  the  week  his  fears  and  mis 
givings  were  scattered  gloriously,  and  a  single  line 
from  the  senator  set  his  heart  leaping  and  brought 
him  to  his  knees  in  gratitude  and  thanksgiving. 
On  returning  one  afternoon  to  the  mean  lodging 
into  which  he  had  moved  to  save  his  money,  he 
found  a  telegram  from  Stanton,  and  he  tore  it  cpen 
trembling  between  hope  and  fear. 

"Have  arranged  to  leave  for  Tampa  with  you 
Monday,  at  midnight,"  it  read.  "Call  for  me  at 
ten  o'clock  same  evening. — STANTON." 

Arkwright  read  the  message  three  times.  There 
was  a  heavy,  suffocating  pressure  at  his  heart  as 
though  it  had  ceased  beating.  He  sank  back  limp 
ly  upon  the  edge  of  his  bed  and,  clutching  the 
piece  of  paper  in  his  two  hands,  spoke  the  words 
aloud  triumphantly  as  though  to  assure  himself 
that  they  were  true.  Then  a  flood  of  unspeakable 
relief,  of  happiness  and  gratitude,  swept  over  him, 
and  he  turned  and  slipped  to  the  floor,  burying 
his  face  in  the  pillow,  and  wept  out  his  thanks 
upon  his  knees. 

A  man  so  deeply  immersed  in  public  affairs  as 
181 


The  Man  with  One  Talent 

was  Stanton,  and  with  such  a  multiplicity  of  per 
sonal  interests,  could  not  prepare  to  absent  him 
self  for  a  month  without  his  intention  becoming 
known,  and  on  the  day  when  he  was  to  start  for 
Tampa  the  morning  newspapers  proclaimed  the 
fact  that  he  was  about  to  visit  Cuba.  They  gave 
to  his  mission  all  the  importance  and  display  that 
Arkwright  had  foretold.  Some  of  the  newspapers 
stated  that  he  was  going  as  a  special  commissioner 
of  the  President  to  study  and  report;  others  that 
he  was  acting  in  behalf  of  the  Cuban  legation  in 
Washington  and  had  plenipotentiary  powers.  Op 
position  organs  suggested  that  he  was  acting  in  the 
interests  of  the  sugar  trust,  and  his  own  particular 
organ  declared  that  it  was  his  intention  to  free 
Cuba  at  the  risk  of  his  own  freedom,  safety,  and 
even  life. 

The  Spanish  minister  in  Washington  sent  a  cable 
for  publication  to  Madrid,  stating  that  a  distin 
guished  American  statesman  was  about  to  visit 
Cuba,  to  investigate,  and,  later,  to  deny  the  truth 
of  the  disgraceful  libels  published  concerning  the 
Spanish  officials  on  the  island  by  the  papers  of  the 
United  States.  At  the  same  time  he  cabled  in 
cipher  to  the  captain-general  in  Havana  to  see 
that  the  distinguished  statesman  was  closely  spied 
upon  from  the  moment  of  his  arrival  until  his  de 
parture,  and  to  place  on  the  "suspect"  list  all 

182 


The  Man  with  One  Talent 

Americans  and  Cubans  who  ventured  to  give  him 
any  information. 

The  afternoon  papers  enlarged  on  the  impor 
tance  of  the  visit  and  on  the  good  that  would 
surely  come  of  it.  They  told  that  Senator  Stanton 
had  refused  to  be  interviewed  or  to  disclose  the 
object  of  his  journey.  But  it  was  enough,  they 
said,  that  someone  in  authority  was  at  last  to  seek 
out  the  truth,  and  added  that  no  one  would  be 
listened  to  with  greater  respect  than  would  the 
Southern  senator.  On  this  all  the  editorial  writers 
were  agreed.  The  day  passed  drearily  for  Ark- 
wright.  Early  in  the  morning  he  packed  his  va 
lise  and  paid  his  landlord,  and  for  the  remainder 
of  the  day  walked  the  streets  or  sat  in  the  hotel 
corridor  waiting  impatiently  for  each  fresh  edition 
of  the  papers.  In  them  he  read  the  signs  of  the 
great  upheaval  of  popular  feeling  that  was  to  re 
store  peace  and  health  and  plenty  to  the  island 
for  which  he  had  given  his  last  three  years  of 
energy  and  life. 

He  was  trembling  with  excitement,  as  well  as 
with  the  cold,  when  at  ten  o'clock  precisely  he 
stood  at  Senator  Stanton's  door.  He  had  forgot 
ten  to  eat  his  dinner,  and  the  warmth  of  the  dimly 
lit  hall  and  the  odor  of  rich  food  which  was  wafted 
from  an  inner  room  touched  his  senses  with  tan 
talizing  comfort. 


The  Man  with  One  Talent 

"The  senator  says  you  are  to  come  this  way, 
sir,"  the  servant  directed.  He  took  Arkwright's 
valise  from  his  hand  and  parted  the  heavy  cur 
tains  that  hid  the  dining-room,  and  Arkwright 
stepped  in  between  them  and  then  stopped  in 
some  embarrassment.  He  found  himself  in  the 
presence  of  a  number  of  gentlemen  seated  at  a 
long  dinner-table,  who  turned  their  heads  as  he 
entered  and  peered  at  him  through  the  smoke  that 
floated  in  light  layers  above  the  white  cloth.  The 
dinner  had  been  served,  but  the  senator's  guests 
still  sat  with  their  chairs  pushed  back  from  a  table 
lighted  by  candles  under  yellow  shades,  and  cov 
ered  with  beautiful  flowers  and  with  bottles  of 
varied  sizes  in  stands  of  quaint  and  intricate  de 
sign.  Senator  Stanton's  tall  figure  showed  dimly 
through  the  smoke,  and  his  deep  voice  hailed  Ark- 
wright  cheerily  from  the  farther  end  of  the  room. 
"This  way,  Mr.  Arkwright,"  he  said.  "I  have  a 
chair  waiting  for  you  here."  He  grasped  Ark 
wright's  hand  warmly  and  pulled  him  into  the 
vacant  place  at  his  side.  An  elderly  gentleman 
on  Arkwright's  other  side  moved  to  make  more 
room  for  him  and  shoved  a  liqueur  glass  toward 
him  with  a  friendly  nod  and  pointed  at  an  open 
box  of  cigars.  He  was  a  fine-looking  man,  and 
Arkwright  noticed  that  he  was  regarding  him 
with  a  glance  of  the  keenest  interest.  All  of  those 

184 


The  Man  with  One  Talent 

at  the  table  were  men  of  twice  Arkwright's  age, 
except  Livingstone,  whom  he  recognized  and  who 
nodded  to  him  pleasantly  and  at  the  same  time 
gave  an  order  to  a  servant,  pointing  at  Arkwright 
as  he  did  so.  Some  of  the  gentlemen  wore  their 
business  suits,  and  one  opposite  Arkwright  was 
still  in  his  overcoat,  and  held  his  hat  in  his  hand. 
These  latter  seemed  to  have  arrived  after  the  din 
ner  had  begun,  for  they  formed  a  second  line  back 
of  those  who  had  places  at  the  table;  they  all 
seemed  to  know  one  another  and  were  talking 
with  much  vivacity  and  interest. 

Stanton  did  not  attempt  to  introduce  Arkwright 
to  his  guests  individually,  but  said:  "Gentlemen, 
this  is  Mr.  Arkwright,  of  whom  I  have  been  tell 
ing  you,  the  young  gentleman  who  has  done  such 
magnificent  work  for  the  cause  of  Cuba."  Those 
who  caught  Arkwright's  eye  nodded  to  him,  and 
others  raised  their  glasses  at  him,  but  with  a  smile 
that  he  could  not  understand.  It  was  as  though 
they  all  knew  something  concerning  him  of  which 
he  was  ignorant.  He  noted  that  the  faces  of  some 
were  strangely  familiar,  and  he  decided  that  he 
must  have  seen  their  portraits  in  the  public  prints. 
After  he  had  introduced  Arkwright,  the  senator 
drew  his  chair  slightly  away  from  him  and  turned 
in  what  seemed  embarrassment  to  the  man  on  his 
other  side.  The  elderly  gentleman  next  to  Ark- 

185 


The  Man  with  One  Talent 

wright  filled  his  glass,  a  servant  placed  a  small 
cup  of  coffee  at  his  elbow,  and  he  lit  a  cigar  and 
looked  about  him. 

"You  must  find  this  weather  very  trying  after 
the  tropics,"  his  neighbor  said. 

Arkwright  assented  cordially.  The  brandy  was 
flowing  through  his  veins  and  warming  him;  he 
forgot  that  he  was  hungry,  and  the  kind,  inter 
ested  glances  of  those  about  him  set  him  at  his 
ease.  It  was  a  propitious  start,  he  thought,  a 
pleasant  leave-taking  for  the  senator  and  himself, 
full  of  good-will  and  good  wishes. 

He  turned  toward  Stanton  and  waited  until  he 
had  ceased  speaking. 

"The  papers  have  begun  well,  haven't  they?" 
he  asked,  eagerly. 

He  had  spoken  in  a  low  voice,  almost  in  a  whis 
per,  but  those  about  the  table  seemed  to  have  heard 
him,  for  there  was  silence  instantly,  and  when  he 
glanced  up  he  saw  the  eyes  of  all  turned  upon  him 
and  he  noticed  on  their  faces  the  same  smile  he 
had  seen  there  when  he  entered. 

"Yes,"  Stanton  answered  constrainedly.  "Yes, 
I — "  he  lowered  his  voice,  but  the  silence  still  con 
tinued.  Stanton  had  his  eyes  fixed  on  the  table, 
but  now  he  frowned  and  half  rose  from  his  chair. 

"I  want  to  speak  with  you,  Arkwright,"  he 
said.  "Suppose  we  go  into  the  next  room.  I'll 

186 


The  Man  with  One  Talent 

be  back  in  a  moment,"  he  added,  nodding  to  the 
others. 

But  the  man  on  his  right  removed  his  cigar 
from  his  lips  and  said  in  an  undertone,  "No,  sit 
down,  stay  where  you  are";  and  the  elderly  gen 
tleman  at  Arkwright's  side  laid  his  hand  de- 
tainingly  on  his  arm.  "Oh,  you  won't  take  Mr. 
Arkwright  away  from  us,  Stanton?"  he  asked, 
smiling. 

Stanton  shrugged  his  shoulders  and  sat  down 
again,  and  there  was  a  moment's  pause.  It  was 
broken  by  the  man  in  the  overcoat,  who  laughed. 

"He's  paying  you  a  compliment,  Mr.  Ark 
wright,"  he  said.  He  pointed  with  his  cigar  to 
the  gentleman  at  Arkwright's  side. 

"I  don't  understand,"  Arkwright  answered, 
doubtfully. 

"It's  a  compliment  to  your  eloquence — he's 
afraid  to  leave  you  alone  with  the  senator.  Liv 
ingstone's  been  telling  us  that  you  are  a  bet 
ter  talker  than  Stanton."  Arkwright  turned  a 
troubled  countenance  toward  the  men  about  the 
table,  and  then  toward  Livingstone,  but  that  young 
man  had  his  eyes  fixed  gravely  on  the  glasses 
before  him  and  did  not  raise  them. 

Arkwright  felt  a  sudden,  unreasonable  fear  of 
the  circle  of  strong-featured,  serene,  and  confident 
men  about  him.  They  seemed  to  be  making  him 

187 


The  Man  with  One  Talent 

the  subject  of  a  jest,  to  be  enjoying  something 
among  themselves  of  which  he  was  in  ignorance, 
but  which  concerned  him  closely.  He  turned  a 
white  face  toward  Stanton. 

"You  don't  mean,"  he  began  piteously,  "that 
— that  you  are  not  going?  Is  that  it — tell  me — • 
is  that  what  you  wanted  to  say?" 

Stanton  shifted  in  his  chair  and  muttered  some 
words  between  his  lips,  then  turned  toward  Ark- 
wright  and  spoke  quite  clearly  and  distinctly. 

"I  am  very  sorry,  Mr.  Arkwright,"  he  said, 
"but  I  am  afraid  I'll  have  to  disappoint  you. 
Reasons  I  cannot  now  explain  have  arisen  which 
make  my  going  impossible — quite  impossible,"  he 
added  firmly — "not  only  now,  but  later,"  he  went 
on  quickly,  as  Arkwright  was  about  to  interrupt 
him. 

Arkwright  made  no  second  attempt  to  speak. 
He  felt  the  muscles  of  his  face  working  and  the 
tears  coming  to  his  eyes,  and  to  hide  his  weakness 
he  twisted  in  his  chair  and  sat  staring  ahead  of 
him  with  his  back  turned  to  the  table.  He  heard 
Livingstone's  voice  break  the  silence  with  some 
hurried  question,  and  immediately  his  embarrass 
ment  was  hidden  in  a  murmur  of  answers  and  the 
moving  of  glasses  as  the  men  shifted  in  their 
chairs  and  the  laughter  and  talk  went  on  as  brisk 
ly  as  before.  Arkwright  saw  a  sideboard  before 

188 


The  Man  with  One  Talent 

him  and  a  servant  arranging  some  silver  on  one 
of  the  shelves.  He  watched  the  man  do  this  with 
a  concentrated  interest  as  though  the  dull,  numbed 
feeling  in  his  brain  caught  at  the  trifle  in  order 
to  put  off,  as  long  as  possible,  the  consideration 
of  the  truth. 

And  then  beyond  the  sideboard  and  the  tapes 
try  on  the  wall  above  it,  he  saw  the  sun  shining 
down  upon  the  island  of  Cuba,  he  saw  the  royal 
palms  waving  and  bending,  the  dusty  columns  of 
Spanish  infantry  crawling  along  the  white  roads 
and  leaving  blazing  huts  and  smoking  cane-fields 
in  their  wake;  he  saw  skeletons  of  men  and  women 
seeking  for  food  among  the  refuse  of  the  street; 
he  heard  the  order  given  to  the  firing  squad,  the 
splash  of  the  bullets  as  they  scattered  the  plaster 
on  the  prison  wall,  and  he  saw  a  kneeling  figure 
pitch  forward  on  its  face,  with  a  useless  bandage 
tied  across  its  sightless  eyes. 

Senator  Stanton  brought  him  back  with  a  sharp 
shake  of  the  shoulder.  He  had  also  turned  his 
back  on  the  others,  and  was  leaning  forward  with 
his  elbows  on  his  knees.  He  spoke  rapidly,  and  in 
a  voice  only  slightly  raised  above  a  whisper. 

"I  am  more  than  sorry,  Arkwright,"  he  said 
earnestly.  "You  mustn't  blame  me  altogether.  I 
have  had  a  hard  time  of  it  this  afternoon.  I  want 
ed  to  go.  I  really  wanted  to  go.  The  thing  ap- 

189 


The  Man  with  One  Talent 

pealed  to  me,  it  touched  me,  it  seemed  as  if  I 
owed  it  to  myself  to  do  it.  But  they  were  too 
many  for  me,"  he  added  with  a  backward  toss  of 
his  head  toward  the  men  around  his  table.  "If 
the  papers  had  not  told  on  me  I  could  have  got 
well  away,"  he  went  on  in  an  eager  tone,  "but  as 
soon  as  they  read  of  it,  they  came  here  straight 
from  their  offices.  You  know  who  they  are,  don't 
you?"  he  asked,  and  even  in  his  earnestness  there 
was  an  added  touch  of  importance  in  his  tone  as 
he  spoke  the  name  of  his  party's  leader,  of  men 
who  stood  prominently  in  Wall  Street  and  who 
were  at  the  head  of  great  trusts. 

"You  see  how  it  is,"  he  said  with  a  shrug  of 
his  shoulders.  "They  have  enormous  interests  at 
stake.  They  said  I  would  drag  them  into  war, 
that  I  would  disturb  values,  that  the  business  in 
terests  of  the  country  would  suffer.  I'm  under 
obligations  to  most  of  them,  they  have  advised  me 
in  financial  matters,  and  they  threatened — they 
threatened  to  make  it  unpleasant  for  me."  His 
voice  hardened  and  he  drew  in  his  breath  quickly, 
and  laughed.  "You  wouldn't  understand  if  I  were 
to  tell  you.  It's  rather  involved.  And  after  all, 
they  may  be  right,  agitation  may  be  bad  for  the 
country.  And  your  party  leader  after  all  is  your 
party  leader,  isn't  he,  and  if  he  says  'no'  what  are 
you  to  do?  My  sympathies  are  just  as  keen  for 

190 


The  Man  with  One  Talent 

these  poor  women  and  children  as  ever,  but  as 
these  men  say,  'charity  begins  at  home,'  and  we 
mustn't  do  anything  to  bring  on  war  prices  again, 
or  to  send  stocks  tumbling  about  our  heads,  must 
we?"  He  leaned  back  in  his  chair  again  and 
sighed.  "Sympathy  is  an  expensive  luxury,  I  find," 
he  added. 

Arkwright  rose  stiffly  and  pushed  Stanton  away 
from  him  with  his  hand.  He  moved  like  a  man 
coming  out  of  a  dream. 

"Don't  talk  to  me  like  that,"  he  said  in  a  low 
voice.  The  noise  about  the  table  ended  on  the 
instant,  but  Arkwright  did  not  notice  that  it  had 
ceased.  "You  know  I  don't  understand  that,"  he 
went  on;  "what  does  it  matter  to  me?"  He  put 
his  hand  up  to  the  side  of  his  face  and  held  it 
there,  looking  down  at  Stanton.  He  had  the  dull, 
heavy  look  in  his  eyes  of  a  man  who  has  just  come 
through  an  operation  under  some  heavy  drug. 
"  'Wall  Street,'  'trusts,'  'party  leaders,'  "  he  re 
peated,  "what  are  they  to  me?  The  words  don't 
reach  me,  they  have  lost  their  meaning,  it  is  a 
language  I  have  forgotten,  thank  God!"  he  added. 
He  turned  and  moved  his  eyes  around  the  table, 
scanning  the  faces  of  the  men  before  him. 

"Yes,  you  are  twelve  to  one,"  he  said  at  last, 
still  speaking  dully  and  in  a  low  voice,  as  though 
he  were  talking  to  himself.  "You  have  won  a 

191 


The  Man  with  One  Talent 

noble  victory,  gentlemen.  I  congratulate  you. 
But  I  do  not  blame  you,  we  are  all  selfish  and  self- 
seeking.  I  thought  I  was  working  only  for  Cuba, 
but  I  was  working  for  myself,  just  as  you  are.  I 
wanted  to  feel  that  it  was  I  who  had  helped  to 
bring  relief  to  that  plague-spot,  that  it  was  through 
my  efforts  the  help  had  come.  Yes,  if  he  had  done 
as  I  asked,  I  suppose  I  would  have  taken  the 
credit." 

He  swayed  slightly,  and  to  steady  himself 
caught  at  the  back  of  his  chair.  But  at  the  same 
moment  his  eyes  glowed  fiercely  and  he  held  him 
self  erect  again.  He  pointed  with  his  finger  at  the 
circle  of  great  men  who  sat  looking  up  at  him  in 
curious  silence. 

"You  are  like  a  ring  of  gamblers  around  a 
gaming  table,"  he  cried  wildly,  "who  see  nothing 
but  the  green  cloth  and  the  wheel  and  the  piles 
of  money  before  them,  who  forget,  in  watching 
the  money  rise  and  fall,  that  outside  the  sun  is 
shining,  that  human  beings  are  sick  and  suffering, 
that  men  are  giving  their  lives  for  an  idea,  for  a 
sentiment,  for  a  flag.  You  are  the  money-chang 
ers  in  the  temple  of  this  great  republic;  and  the 
day  will  come,  I  pray  to  God,  when  you  will  be 
scourged  and  driven  out  with  whips.  Do  you 
think  you  can  form  combines  and  deals  that  will 
cheat  you  into  heaven?  Can  your  'trusts'  save 

192 


V 

<^   ,  •-:-. . .   : 

You  are  like  a  ring  of  gamblers  around  a  gaming  table. 


The  Man  with  One  Talent 

your  souls — is  'Wall  Street'  the  strait  and  nar 
row  road  to  salvation?" 

The  men  about  the  table  leaned  back  and  stared 
at  Arkwright  in  as  great  amazement  as  though  he 
had  violently  attempted  an  assault  upon  their 
pockets,  or  had  suddenly  gone  mad  in  their  pres 
ence.  Some  of  them  frowned,  and  others  appeared 
not  to  have  heard,  and  others  smiled  grimly  and 
waited  for  him  to  continue  as  though  they  were 
spectators  at  a  play. 

The  political  leader  broke  the  silence  with  a  low 
aside  to  Stanton.  "Does  the  gentleman  belong 
to  the  Salvation  Army?"  he  asked. 

Arkwright  whirled  about  and  turned  upon  him 
fiercely. 

"Old  gods  give  way  to  new  gods,"  he  cried. 
"Here  is  your  brother.  I  am  speaking  for  him. 
Do  you  ever  think  of  him?  How  dare  you  sneer 
at  me?"  he  cried.  "You  can  crack  your  whip 
over  that  man's  head  and  turn  him  from  what  in 
his  heart  and  conscience  he  knows  is  right;  you 
can  crack  your  whip  over  the  men  who  call  them 
selves  free-born  American  citizens  and  who  have 
made  you  their  boss — sneer  at  them  if  you  like, 
but  you  have  no  collar  on  my  neck.  If  you  are 
a  leader,  why  don't  you  lead  your  people  to  what 
is  good  and  noble?  Why  do  you  stop  this  man 
in  the  work  God  sent  him  here  to  do  ?  You  would 

193 


The  Man  with  One  Talent 

make  a  party  hack  of  him,  a  political  prostitute, 
something  lower  than  the  woman  who  walks  the 
streets.  She  sells  her  body — this  man  is  selling  his 
soul." 

He  turned,  trembling  and  quivering,  and  shook 
his  finger  above  the  upturned  face  of  the  senator. 

"What  have  you  done  with  your  talents,  Stan- 
ton?"  he  cried.  "What  have  you  done  with  your 
talents?" 

The  man  in  the  overcoat  struck  the  table  before 
him  with  his  fist  so  that  the  glasses  rang. 

"By  God,"  he  laughed,  "I  call  him  a  better 
speaker  than  Stanton!  Livingstone's  right,  he  is 
better  than  Stanton — but  he  lacks  Stanton's  knack 
of  making  himself  popular,"  he  added.  He  looked 
around  the  table  inviting  approbation  with  a  smile, 
but  no  one  noticed  him,  nor  spoke  to  break  the 
silence. 

Arkwright  heard  the  words  dully  and  felt  that 
he  was  being  mocked.  He  covered  his  face  with 
his  hands  and  stood  breathing  brokenly;  his  body 
was  still  trembling  with  an  excitement  he  could 
not  master. 

Stanton  rose  from  his  chair  and  shook  him  by 
the  shoulder.  "Are  you  mad,  Arkwright?"  he 
cried.  "You  have  no  right  to  insult  my  guests  or 
me.  Be  calm — control  yourself." 

"What  does  it  matter  what  I  say?"  Arkwright 
194 


The  Man  with  One  Talent 

went  on  desperately.  "I  am  mad.  Yes,  that  is  it, 
I  am  mad.  They  have  won  and  I  have  lost,  and 
it  drove  me  beside  myself.  I  counted  on  you.  1 
knew  that  no  one  else  could  let  my  people  go.  But 
I'll  not  trouble  you  again.  I  wish  you  good-night, 
sir,  and  good-by.  If  I  have  been  unjust,  you 
must  forget  it." 

He  turned  sharply,  but  Stanton  placed  a  detain 
ing  hand  on  his  shoulder.  "Wait,"  he  command 
ed  querulously;  "where  are  you  going?  Will  you, 
still ?" 

Arkwright  bowed  his  head.  "Yes,"  he  an 
swered.  "I  have  but  just  time  now  to  catch  our 
train — my  train,  I  mean." 

He  looked  up  at  Stanton,  and  taking  his  hand 
in  both  of  his,  drew  the  man  toward  him.  All 
the  wildness  and  intolerance  in  his  manner  had 
passed,  and  as  he  raised  his  eyes  they  were  full  of 
a  firm  resolve. 

"Come,"  he  said,  simply;  "there  is  yet  time. 
Leave  these  people  behind  you.  What  can  you 
answer  when  they  ask  what  have  you  done  with 
your  talents?" 

"Good  God,  Arkwright,"  the  senator  exclaimed, 
angrily,  pulling  his  hand  away;  "don't  talk  like  a 
hymn-book,  and  don't  make  another  scene.  What 
you  ask  is  impossible.  Tell  me  what  I  can  do  to 

help  you  in  any  other  way,  and " 

195 


The  Man  with  One  Talent 

"Come,"  repeated  the  young  man,  firmly.  "The 
world  may  judge  you  by  what  you  do  to 
night." 

Stanton  looked  at  the  boy  for  a  brief  moment 
with  a  strained  and  eager  scrutiny,  and  then  turned 
away  abruptly  and  shook  his  head  in  silence,  and 
Arkwright  passed  around  the  table  and  on  out  of 
the  room. 

A  month  later,  as  the  Southern  senator  was  pass 
ing  through  the  reading-room  of  the  Union  Club, 
Livingstone  beckoned  to  him,  and  handing  him  an 
afternoon  paper  pointed  at  a  paragraph  in  silence. 
The  paragraph  was  dated  Sagua  la  Grande,  and 
read: 

"The  body  of  Henry  Arkwright,  an  American 
civil  engineer,  was  brought  into  Sagua  to-day  by 
a  Spanish  column.  It  was  found  lying  in  a  road 
three  miles  beyond  the  line  of  forts.  Arkwright 
was  surprised  by  a  guerilla  force  while  attempting 
to  make  his  way  to  the  insurgent  camp,  and  on 
resisting  was  shot.  The  body  has  been  handed 
over  to  the  American  consul  for  interment.  It  is 
badly  mutilated." 

Stanton  lowered  the  paper  and  stood  staring 
out  of  the  window  at  the  falling  snow  and  the 
cheery  lights  and  bustling  energy  of  the  ave 
nue. 

"Poor  fellow,"  he  said,  "he  wanted  so  much 
196 


The  Man  with  One  Talent 

to  help  them.  And  he  didn't  accomplish  anything, 
did  he?" 

Livingstone  stared  at  the  older  man  and  laughed 
shortly. 

"Well,  I  don't  know,"  he  said.  "He  died. 
Some  of  us  only  live." 


197 


THE  VAGRANT 


The  Vagrant 


HIS  Excellency  Sir  Charles  Greville,  K.  C. 
M.  G.,  Governor  of  the  Windless  Islands, 
stood  upon  the  veranda  of  Government  House 
surveying  the  new  day  with  critical  and  searching 
eyes.  Sir  Charles  had  been  so  long  absolute  mon 
arch  of  the  Windless  Isles  that  he  had  assumed 
unconsciously  a  mental  attitude  of  suzerainty  over 
even  the  glittering  waters  of  the  Caribbean  Sea, 
and  the  coral  reefs  under  the  waters,  and  the  rain 
bow  skies  that  floated  above  them.  But  on  this 
particular  morning  not  even  the  critical  eye  of  the 
Governor  could  distinguish  a  single  flaw  in  the 
tropical  landscape  before  him. 

The  lawn  at  his  feet  ran  down  to  meet  the  daz 
zling  waters  of  the  bay,  the  blue  waters  of  the 
bay  ran  to  meet  a  great  stretch  of  absinthe  green, 
the  green  joined  a  fairy  sky  of  pink  and  gold  and 
saffron.  Islands  of  coral  floated  on  the  sea  of 
absinthe,  and  derelict  clouds  of  mother-of-pearl 
swung  low  above  them,  starting  from  nowhere 
and  going  nowhere,  but  drifting  beautifully,  like 
giant  soap-bubbles  of  light  and  color.  Where  the 

201 


The  Vagrant 

lawn  touched  the  waters  of  the  bay  the  cocoanut- 
palms  reached  their  crooked  lengths  far  up  into  the 
sunshine,  and  as  the  sea-breeze  stirred  their  fronds 
they  filled  the  hot  air  with  whispers  and  murmurs 
like  the  fluttering  of  many  fans.  Nature  smiled 
boldly  upon  the  Governor,  confident  in  her  boun 
tiful  beauty,  as  though  she  said,  "Surely  you  can 
not  but  be  pleased  with  me  to-day."  And,  as 
though  in  answer,  the  critical  and  searching  glance 
of  Sir  Charles  relaxed. 

The  crunching  of  the  gravel  and  the  rattle  of 
the  sentry's  musket  at  salute  recalled  him  to  his 
high  office  and  to  the  duties  of  the  morning.  He 
waved  his  hand,  and,  as  though  it  were  a  wand, 
the  sentry  moved  again,  making  his  way  to  the 
kitchen-garden,  and  so  around  Government  House 
and  back  to  the  lawn-tennis  court,  maintaining  in 
his  solitary  pilgrimage  the  dignity  of  her  Majes 
ty's  representative,  as  well  as  her  Majesty's  power 
over  the  Windless  Isles. 

The  Governor  smiled  slightly,  with  the  ease  of 
mind  of  one  who  finds  all  things  good.  Supreme 
authority,  surroundings  of  endless  beauty,  the  re 
spectful,  even  humble,  deference  of  his  inferiors, 
and  never  even  an  occasional  visit  from  a  superior, 
had  in  four  years  lowered  him  into  a  bed  of  ease 
and  self-satisfaction.  He  was  cut  off  from  the 
world,  and  yet  of  it.  Each  month  there  came, 

202 


The  Vagrant 

via  Jamaica,  the  three  weeks'  old  copy  of  The 
Weekly  Times;  he  subscribed  to  Mudie's  Colonial 
Library;  and  from  the  States  he  had  imported  an 
American  lawn-mower,  the  mechanism  of  which 
no  one  as  yet  understood.  Within  his  own  bor 
ders  he  had  created  a  healthy,  orderly  seaport  out 
of  what  had  been  a  sink  of  fever  and  a  refuge  for 
all  the  ne'er-do-wells  and  fugitive  revolutionists 
of  Central  America. 

He  knew,  as  he  sat  each  evening  on  his  veran 
da,  looking  across  the  bay,  that  in  the  world  be 
yond  the  pink  and  gold  sunset  men  were  still  pant 
ing,  struggling,  and  starving;  crises  were  rising 
and  passing;  strikes  and  panics,  wars  and  the  ru 
mors  of  wars,  swept  from  continent  to  continent; 
a  plague  crept  through  India;  a  filibuster  with 
five  hundred  men  at  his  back  crossed  an  imaginary 
line  and  stirred  the  world  from  Cape  Town  to 
London;  Emperors  were  crowned;  the  good 
Queen  celebrated  the  longest  reign;  and  a  captain 
of  artillery  imprisoned  in  a  swampy  island  in  the 
South  Atlantic  caused  two  hemispheres  to  clamor 
for  his  rescue,  and  lit  a  race  war  that  stretched 
from  Algiers  to  the  boulevards. 

And  yet,  at  the  Windless  Isles,  all  these  hap 
penings  seemed  to  Sir  Charles  like  the  morning's 
memory  of  a  dream.  For  these  things  never 
crossed  the  ring  of  the  coral  reefs;  he  saw  them 

203 


The  Vagrant 


only  as  pictures  in  an  illustrated  paper  a  month 
old.  And  he  was  pleased  to  find  that  this  was  so. 
He  was  sufficient  to  himself,  with  his  own  respon 
sibilities  and  social  duties  and  public  works.  He 
was  a  man  in  authority,  who  said  to  others, 
"Come!"  and  "Go!"  Under  him  were  commis 
sioners,  and  under  the  commissioners  district  in 
spectors  and  boards  of  education  and  of  highways. 
For  the  better  health  of  the  colony  he  had  planted 
trees  that  sucked  the  malaria  from  the  air;  for  its 
better  morals  he  had  substituted  as  a  Sunday 
amusement  cricket-matches  for  cock-fights;  and  to 
keep  it  at  peace  he  had  created  a  local  constabu 
lary  of  native  negroes,  and  had  dressed  them  in 
the  cast-off  uniforms  of  London  policemen.  His 
handiwork  was  everywhere,  and  his  interest  was 
all  sunk  in  his  handiwork.  The  days  passed  gor 
geous  with  sunshine,  the  nights  breathed  with 
beauty.  It  was  an  existence  of  leisurely  occupa 
tion,  and  one  that  promised  no  change,  and  he 
was  content. 

As  it  was  Thursday,  the  Council  met  that  morn 
ing,  and  some  questions  of  moment  to  the  colony 
were  to  be  brought  up  for  consideration.  The 
question  of  the  dog-tax  was  one  which  perplexed 
Sir  Charles  most  particularly.  The  two  Council 
lors  elected  by  the  people  and  the  three  appointed 
by  the  crown  had  disagreed  as  to  this  tax.  Of 

204 


The  Vagrant 

the  five  hundred  British  subjects  at  the  seaport, 
all  but  ten  were  owners  of  dogs,  and  it  had  oc 
curred  to  Sassoon,  the  chemist,  that  a  tax  of  half- 
a-crown  a  year  on  each  of  these  dogs  would  meet 
the  expense  of  extending  the  oyster-shell  road  to 
the  new  cricket-grounds.  To  this  Snellgrove,  who 
held  the  contract  for  the  narrow-gauge  railroad, 
agreed;  but  the  three  crown  Councillors  opposed 
the  tax  vigorously,  on  the  ground  that  as  scaven 
gers  alone  the  dogs  were  a  boon  to  the  colony  and 
should  be  encouraged.  The  fact  that  each  of  these 
gentlemen  owned  not  only  one  but  several  dogs 
of  high  pedigree  made  their  position  one  of  great 
delicacy. 

There  was  no  way  by  which  the  Governor  could 
test  the  popular  will  in  the  matter,  except  through 
his  secretary,  Mr.  Clarges,  who,  at  the  cricket- 
match  between  the  local  eleven  and  the  officers 
and  crew  of  H.  M.  S.  Partridge,  had  been  in 
formed  by  the  other  owners  of  several  fox-terriers 
that,  in  their  opinion,  the  tax  was  a  piece  of  "con 
demned  tommy-rot."  From  this  the  Governor 
judged  that  it  would  not  prove  a  popular  meas 
ure.  As  he  paced  the  veranda,  drawing  deliber 
ately  on  his  cigar,  and  considering  to  which  party 
he  should  give  the  weight  of  his  final  support,  his 
thoughts  were  disturbed  by  the  approach  of  a 
stranger,  who  advanced  along  the  gravel  walk, 

205 


The  Vagrant 

guarded  on  either  side  by  one  of  the  local  constab 
ulary.  The  stranger  was  young  and  of  poor  ap 
pearance.  His  bare  feet  were  bound  in  a  pair  of 
the  rope  sandals  worn  by  the  natives,  his  clothing 
was  of  torn  and  soiled  drill,  and  he  fanned  his 
face  nonchalantly  with  a  sombrero  of  battered 
and  shapeless  felt. 

Sir  Charles  halted  in  his  walk,  and,  holding  his 
cigar  behind  his  back,  addressed  himself  to  the 
sergeant. 

"A  vagrant?"  he  asked. 

The  words  seemed  to  bear  some  amusing  sig 
nificance  to  the  stranger,  for  his  face  lit  instantly 
with  a  sweet  and  charming  smile,  and  while  he 
turned  to  hear  the  sergeant's  reply,  he  regarded 
him  with  a  kindly  and  affectionate  interest. 

"Yes,  your  Excellency." 

The  Governor  turned  to  the  prisoner. 

"Do  you  know  the  law  of  this  colony  regarding 
vagrants  ?" 

"I  do  not,"  the  young  man  answered.  His  tone 
was  politely  curious,  and  suggested  that  he  would 
like  to  be  further  informed  as  to  the  local  pecul 
iarities  of  a  foreign  country. 

"After  two  weeks'  residence,"  the  Governor  re 
cited,  impressively,  "all  able-bodied  persons  who 
will  not  work  are  put  to  work  or  deported.  Have 
you  made  any  effort  to  find  work?" 

206 


The  Vagrant 


Again  the  young  man  smiled  charmingly.  He 
shook  his  head  and  laughed.  "Oh  dear  no,"  he 
said. 

The  laugh  struck  the  Governor  as  imperti 
nent. 

"Then  you  must  leave  by  the  next  mail-steamer, 
if  you  have  any  money  to  pay  your  passage,  or,  if 
you  have  no  money,  you  must  go  to  work  on  the 
roads.  Have  you  any  money?" 

"If  I  had,  I  wouldn't — be  a  vagrant,"  the 
young  man  answered.  His  voice  was  low  and 
singularly  sweet.  It  seemed  to  suit  the  indolence 
of  his  attitude  and  the  lazy,  inconsequent  smile. 
"I  called  on  our  consular  agent  here,"  he  contin 
ued,  leisurely,  "to  write  a  letter  home  for  money, 
but  he  was  disgracefully  drunk,  so  I  used  his  offi 
cial  note-paper  to  write  to  the  State  Department 
about  him  instead." 

The  Governor's  deepest  interest  was  aroused. 
The  American  consular  agent  was  one  of  the  se 
verest  trials  he  was  forced  to  endure. 

"You  are  not  a  British  subject,  then?  Ah,  I 
see — and — er — your  representative  was  unable  to 
assist  you?" 

"He  was  drunk,"  the  young  man  repeated,  plac 
idly.  "He  has  been  drunk  ever  since  I  have  been 
here,  particularly  in  the  mornings."  He  halted, 
as  though  the  subject  had  lost  interest  for  him, 

207 


The  Vagrant 

and  gazed  pleasantly  at  the  sunny  bay  and  up  at 
the  moving  palms. 

"Then,"  said  the  Governor,  as  though  he  had 
not  been  interrupted,  "as  you  have  no  means  of 
support,  you  will  help  support  the  colony  until 
you  can  earn  money  to  leave  it.  That  will  do, 
sergeant." 

The  young  man  placed  his  hat  upon  his  head 
and  turned  to  move  away,  but  at  the  first  step  he 
swayed  suddenly  and  caught  at  the  negro's  shoul 
der,  clasping  his  other  hand  across  his  eyes.  The 
sergeant  held  him  by  the  waist,  and  looked  up  at 
the  Governor  with  some  embarrassment. 

"The  young  gentleman  has  not  been  well,  Sir 
Charles,"  he  said,  apologetically. 

The  stranger  straightened  himself  up  and  smiled 
vaguely.  "I'm  all  right,"  he  murmured.  "Sun's 
too  hot." 

"Sit  down,"  said  the  Governor. 

He  observed  the  stranger  more  closely.  He 
noticed  now  that  beneath  the  tan  his  face  was  deli 
cate  and  finely  cut,  and  that  his  yellow  hair  clung 
closely  to  a  well-formed  head. 

"He  seems  faint.  Has  he  had  anything  to  eat?" 
asked  the  Governor. 

The  sergeant  grinned  guiltily.  "Yes,  Sir 
Charles;  we've  been  feeding  him  at  the  barracks. 
It's  fever,  sir." 

208 


The  Vagrant 

Sir  Charles  was  not  unacquainted  with  fallen 
gentlemen,  "beach-combers,"  "remittance  men," 
and  vagrants  who  had  known  better  days,  and 
there  had  been  something  winning  in  this  vagrant's 
smile,  and,  moreover,  he  had  reported  that  thorn 
in  his  flesh,  the  consular  agent,  to  the  proper  au 
thorities. 

He  conceived  an  interest  in  a  young  man  who, 
though  with  naked  feet,  did  not  hesitate  to  corre 
spond  with  his  Minister  of  Foreign  Affairs. 

"How  long  have  you  been  ill?"  he  asked. 

The  young  man  looked  up  from  where  he  had 
sunk  on  the  steps,  and  roused  himself  with  a 
shrug.  "It  doesn't  matter,"  he  said.  "I've  had 
a  touch  of  Chagres  ever  since  I  was  on  the  Isth 
mus.  I  was  at  work  there  on  the  railroad." 

"Did  you  come  here  from  Colon?" 

"No ;  I  worked  up  the  Pacific  side.  I  was  clerk 
ing  with  Rossner  Brothers  at  Amapala  for  a  while, 
because  I  speak  a  little  German,  and  then  I  footed 
it  over  to  Puerto  Cortez  and  got  a  job  with  the 
lottery  people.  They  gave  me  twenty  dollars  a 
month  gold  for  rolling  the  tickets,  and  I  put  it 
all  in  the  drawing,  and  won  as  much  as  ten."  He 
laughed,  and,  sitting  erect,  drew  from  his  pocket 
a  roll  of  thin  green  papers.  "These  are  for  the 
next  drawing,"  he  said.  "Have  some?"  he  added. 
He  held  them  toward  the  negro  sergeant,  who, 

209 


The  Vagrant 


under  the  eye  of  the  Governor,  resisted,  and  then 
spread  the  tickets  on  his  knee  like  a  hand  at  cards. 
"I  stand  to  win  a  lot  with  these,"  he  said,  with  a 
cheerful  sigh.  "You  see,  until  the  list's  published 
I'm  prospectively  worth  twenty  thousand  dollars. 
And,"  he  added,  "I  break  stones  in  the  sun."  He 
rose  unsteadily,  and  saluted  the  Governor  with  a 
nod.  "Good-morning,  sir,"  he  said,  "and  thank 
you." 

"Wait,"  Sir  Charles  commanded.  A  new  form 
of  punishment  had  suggested  itself,  in  which  jus 
tice  was  tempered  with  mercy.  "Can  you  work 
one  of  your  American  lawn-mowers?"  he  asked. 

The  young  man  laughed  delightedly.  "I  never 
tried,"  he  said,  "but  I've  seen  it  done." 

"If  you've  been  ill,  it  would  be  murder  to  put 
you  on  the  shell  road."  The  Governor's  dignity 
relaxed  into  a  smile.  "I  don't  desire  international 
complications,"  he  said.  "Sergeant,  take  this — 
him — to  the  kitchen,  and  tell  Corporal  Mallon  to 
give  him  that  American  lawn-mowing  machine. 
Possibly  he  may  understand  its  mechanism.  Mal 
lon  only  cuts  holes  in  the  turf  with  it."  And  he 
waved  his  hand  in  dismissal,  and  as  the  three  men 
moved  away  he  buried  himself  again  in  the  per 
plexities  of  the  dog-tax. 

Ten  minutes  later  the  deliberations  of  the  Coun 
cil  were  disturbed  by  a  loud  and  persistent  ratrb, 

210 


The  Vagrant 

like  the  whir  of  a  Maxim  gun,  which  proved,  on 
investigation,  to  arise  from  the  American  lawn- 
mower.  The  vagrant  was  propelling  it  triumph 
antly  across  the  lawn,  and  gazing  down  at  it  with 
the  same  fond  pride  with  which  a  nursemaid  leans 
over  the  perambulator  to  observe  her  lusty  and 
gurgling  charge. 

The  Councillors  had  departed,  Sir  Charles  was 
thinking  of  breakfast,  the  Maxim-like  lawn-mower 
still  irritated  the  silent  hush  of  mid-day,  when  from 
the  waters  of  the  inner  harbor  there  came  sud 
denly  the  sharp  report  of  a  saluting  gun  and  the 
rush  of  falling  anchor-chains.  There  was  still  a 
week  to  pass  before  the  mail-steamer  should  ar 
rive,  and  H.  M.  S.  Partridge  had  departed  for 
Nassau.  Besides  these  ships,  no  other  vessel  had 
skirted  the  buoys  of  the  bay  in  eight  long  smiling 
months.  Mr.  Clarges,  the  secretary,  with  an  ef 
fort  to  appear  calm,  and  the  orderly,  suffocated 
with  the  news,  entered  through  separate  doors  at 
the  same  instant. 

The  secretary  filed  his  report  first.  "A  yacht's 
just  anchored  in  the  bay,  Sir  Charles,"  he  said. 

The  orderly's  face  fell.  He  looked  aggrieved. 
"An  American  yacht,"  he  corrected. 

"And  much  larger  than  the  Partridge"  contin 
ued  the  secretary. 

211 


The  Vagrant 


The  orderly  took  a  hasty  glance  back  over  his 
shoulder.  "She  has  her  launch  lowered  already, 
sir,"  he  said. 

Outside  the  whir  of  the  lawn-mower  continued 
undisturbed.  Sir  Charles  reached  for  his  ma 
rine-glass,  and  the  three  men  hurried  to  the 
veranda. 

"It  looks  like  a  man-of-war,"  said  Sir  Charles. 
"No,"  he  added,  adjusting  the  binocular;  "she's 
a  yacht.  She  flies  the  New  York  Yacht  Club  pen 
nant — now  she's  showing  the  owner's  absent  pen 
nant.  He  must  have  left  in  the  launch.  He's 
coming  ashore  now." 

"He  seems  in  a  bit  of  a  hurry,"  growled  Mr. 
Clarges. 

"Those  Americans  always — "  murmured  Sir 
Charles  from  behind  the  binocular.  He  did  not 
quite  know  that  he  enjoyed  this  sudden  onslaught 
upon  the  privacy  of  his  harbor  and  port. 

It  was  in  itself  annoying,  and  he  was  further 
annoyed  to  find  that  it  could  in  the  least  degree 
disturb  his  poise. 

The  launch  was  growing  instantly  larger,  like 
an  express  train  approaching  a  station  at  full 
speed;  her  flags  flew  out  as  flat  as  pieces  of  paint 
ed  tin;  her  bits  of  brass-work  flashed  like  fire.  Al 
ready  the  ends  of  the  wharves  were  white  with 
groups  of  natives. 

212 


The  Vagrant 


"You  might  think  he  was  going  to  ram  the 
town,"  suggested  the  secretary. 

"Oh,  I  say,"  he  exclaimed,  in  remonstrance, 
"he's  making  in  for  your  private  wharf." 

The  Governor  was  rearranging  the  focus  of  the 
glass  with  nervous  fingers.  "I  believe,"  he  said, 
"no — yes — upon  my  word,  there  are — there  are 
ladies  in  that  launch!" 

"Ladies,  sir!"  The  secretary  threw  a  hasty 
glance  at  the  binocular,  but  it  was  in  immediate 
use. 

The  clatter  of  the  lawn-mower  ceased  sudden 
ly,  and  the  relief  of  its  silence  caused  the  Gov 
ernor  to  lower  his  eyes.  He  saw  the  lawn-mower 
lying  prostrate  on  the  grass.  The  vagrant  had 
vanished. 

There  was  a  sharp  tinkle  of  bells,  and  the  launch 
slipped  up  to  the  wharf  and  halted  as  softly  as  a 
bicycle.  A  man  in  a  yachting-suit  jumped  from 
her,  and  making  some  laughing  speech  to  the  two 
women  in  the  stern,  walked  briskly  across  the  lawn, 
taking  a  letter  from  his  pocket  as  he  came.  Sir 
Charles  awaited  him  gravely;  the  occupants  of 
the  launch  had  seen  him,  and  it  was  too  late  to 
retreat. 

"Sir  Charles  Greville,  I  believe,"  said  the  yachts 
man.  He  bowed,  and  ran  lightly  up  the  steps. 
"I  am  Mr.  Robert  Collier,  from  New  York,"  he 

213 


The  Vagrant 

said.  "I  have  a  letter  to  you  from  your  ambassa 
dor  at  Washington.  If  you'll  pardon  me,  I'll  pre 
sent  it  in  person.  I  had  meant  to  leave  it,  but 
seeing  you — "  He  paused,  and  gave  the  letter 
in  his  hand  to  Sir  Charles,  who  waved  him  toward 
his  library. 

Sir  Charles  scowled  at  the  letter  through  his 
monocle,  and  then  shook  hands  with  his  visitor. 
"I  am  very  glad  to  see  you,  Mr.  Collier,"  he  said. 
"He  says  here  you  are  preparing  a  book  on  our 
colonies  in  the  West  Indies."  He  tapped  the  let 
ter  with  his  monocle.  "I  am  sure  I  shall  be  most 
happy  to  assist  you  with  any  information  in  my 
power." 

"Well,  I  am  writing  a  book — yes,"  Mr.  Collier 
observed,  doubtfully,  "but  it's  a  log-book.  This 
trip  I  am  on  pleasure  bent,  and  I  also  wish  to 
consult  with  you  on  a  personal  matter.  However, 
that  can  wait."  He  glanced  out  of  the  windows 
to  where  the  launch  lay  in  the  sun.  "My  wife 
came  ashore  with  me,  Sir  Charles,"  he  said,  "so 
that  in  case  there  was  a  Lady  Greville,  Mrs.  Col 
lier  could  call  on  her,  and  we  could  ask  if  you 
would  waive  etiquette  and  do  us  the  honor  to  dine 
with  us  to-night  on  the  yacht — that  is,  if  you  are 
not  engaged." 

Sir  Charles  smiled.  "There  is  no  Lady  Grev 
ille,"  he  said,  "and  I  personally  do  not  think  I  am 

214 


The  Vagrant 

engaged  elsewhere."  He  paused  in  thought,  as 
though  to  make  quite  sure  he  was  not.  "No,"  he 
added,  "I  have  no  other  engagement.  I  will  come 
with  pleasure." 

Sir  Charles  rose  and  clapped  his  hands  for  the 
orderly.  "Possibly  the  ladies  will  come  up  to  the 
veranda?"  he  asked.  "I  cannot  allow  them  to  re 
main  at  the  end  of  my  wharf."  He  turned,  and 
gave  directions  to  the  orderly  to  bring  limes  and 
bottles  of  soda  and  ice,  and  led  the  way  across 
the  lawn. 

Mrs.  Collier  and  her  friend  had  not  explored 
the  grounds  of  Government  House  for  over  ten 
minutes  before  Sir  Charles  felt  that  many  years 
ago  he  had  personally  arranged  their  visit,  that 
he  had  known  them  for  even  a  longer  time,  and 
that,  now  that  they  had  finally  arrived,  they  must 
never  depart. 

To  them  there  was  apparently  nothing  on  his 
domain  which  did  not  thrill  with  delightful  inter 
est.  They  were  as  eager  as  two  children  at  a  pan 
tomime,  and  as  unconscious.  As  a  rule,  Sir  Charles 
had  found  it  rather  difficult  to  meet  the  women 
of  his  colony  on  a  path  which  they  were  capable 
of  treading  intelligently.  In  fairness  to  them,  he 
had  always  sought  out  some  topic  in  which  they 
could  take  an  equal  part — something  connected 
with  the  conduct  of  children,  or  the  better  ventila- 

215 


The  Vagrant 

tion  of  the  new  school-house  and  chapel.  But 
these  new-comers  did  not  require  him  to  select 
topics  of  conversation;  they  did  not  even  wait  for 
him  to  finish  those  which  he  himself  introduced. 
They  flitted  from  one  end  of  the  garden  to  the  other 
with  the  eagerness  of  two  midshipmen  on  shore 
leave,  and  they  found  something  to  enjoy  in  what 
seemed  to  the  Governor  the  most  commonplace 
of  things.  The  Zouave  uniform  of  the  sentry,  the 
old  Spanish  cannon  converted  into  peaceful  gate 
posts,  the  aviary  with  its  screaming  paroquets,  the 
botanical  station,  and  even  the  ice-machine  were 
all  objects  of  delight. 

On  the  other  hand,  the  interior  of  the  famous 
palace,  which  had  been  sent  out  complete  from 
London,  and  which  was  wont  to  fill  the  wives  of 
the  colonials  with  awe  or  to  reduce  them  to  whis 
pers,  for  some  reason  failed  of  its  effect.  But 
they  said  they  "loved"  the  large  gold  V.  R.'s  on 
the  back  of  the  Councillors'  chairs,  and  they  ex 
claimed  aloud  over  the  red  leather  despatch-boxes 
and  the  great  seal  of  the  colony,  and  the  mysteri 
ous  envelopes  marked  "On  her  Majesty's  ser 


vice." 


"Isn't  it  too  exciting,  Florence?"  demanded 
Mrs.  Collier.  "This  is  the  table  where  Sir  Charles 
sits  and  writes  letters  'on  her  Majesty's  service,' 
and  presses  these  buttons,  and  war-ships  spring  up 

216 


The  Vagrant 


fn  perfect  shoals.  Oh,  Robert,"  she  sighed,  "I  do 
wish  you  had  been  a  Governor  I" 

The  young  lady  called  Florence  stood  looking 
down  into  the  great  arm-chair  in  front  of  the  Gov 
ernor's  table. 

"May  I?"  she  asked.  She  slid  fearlessly  in 
between  the  oak  arms  of  the  chair  and  smiled 
about  her.  Afterward  Sir  Charles  remembered 
her  as  she  appeared  at  that  moment  with  the  red 
leather  of  the  chair  behind  her,  with  her  gloved 
hands  resting  on  the  carved  oak,  and  her  head  on 
one  side,  smiling  up  at  him.  She  gazed  with 
large  eyes  at  the  blue  linen  envelopes,  the  stiff 
documents  in  red  tape,  the  tray  of  black  sand,  and 
the  goose-quill  pens. 

"I  am  now  the  Countess  Zika,"  she  announced; 
"no,  I  am  Diana  of  the  Crossways,  and  I  mean 
to  discover  a  state  secret  and  sell  it  to  the  Daily 
Telegraph.  Sir  Charles,"  she  demanded,  "if  I 
press  this  electric  button  is  war  declared  anywhere, 
or  what  happens?" 

"That  second  button,"  said  Sir  Charles,  after 
deliberate  scrutiny,  "is  the  one  which  communi 
cates  with  the  pantry." 

The  Governor  would  not  consider  their  return 
ing  to  the  yacht  for  luncheon. 

"You  might  decide  to  steam  away  as  suddenly 
as  you  came,"  he  said,  gallantly,  "and  I  cannot 

217 


The  Vagrant 


take  that  chance.  This  is  Bachelor's  Hall,  so  you 
must  pardon  my  people  if  things  do  not  go  very 
smoothly."  He  himself  led  them  to  the  great 
guest-chamber,  where  there  had  not  been  a  guest 
for  many  years,  and  he  noticed,  as  though  for  the 
first  time,  that  the  halls  through  which  they  passed 
were  bare,  and  that  the  floor  was  littered  with 
unpacked  boxes  and  gun-cases.  He  also  observed 
for  the  first  time  that  maps  of  the  colony,  with 
the  coffee-plantations  and  mahogany  belt  marked 
in  different  inks,  were  not  perhaps  so  decorative 
as  pictures  and  mirrors  and  family  portraits.  And 
he  could  have  wished  that  the  native  servants  had 
not  stared  so  admiringly  at  the  guests,  nor  direct 
ed  each  other  in  such  aggressive  whispers.  On 
those  other  occasions,  when  the  wives  of  the  Coun 
cillors  came  to  the  semi-annual  dinners,  the  native 
servants  had  seemed  adequate  to  all  that  was  re 
quired  of  them.  He  recollected  with  a  flush  that 
in  the  town  these  semi-annual  dinners  were  de 
scribed  as  banquets.  He  wondered  if  to  these 
visitors  from  the  outside  world  it  was  all  equally 
provincial. 

But  their  enjoyment  was  apparently  unfeigned 
and  generous.  It  was  evident  that  they  had  known 
each  other  for  many  years,  yet  they  received  every 
remark  that  any  of  them  made  as  though  it  had 
been  pronounced  by  a  new  and  interesting  acquaint- 

218 


The  Vagrant 

ance.  Sir  Charles  found  it  rather  difficult  to  keep 
up  with  the  talk  across  the  table,  they  changed 
the  subject  so  rapidly,  and  they  half  spoke  of  so 
many  things  without  waiting  to  explain.  He 
could  not  at  once  grasp  the  fact  that  people  who 
had  no  other  position  in  the  world  save  that  of 
observers  were  speaking  so  authoritatively  of  pub 
lic  men  and  public  measures.  He  found,  to 
his  delight,  that  for  the  first  time  in  several 
years  he  was  not  presiding  at  his  own  table, 
and  that  his  guests  seemed  to  feel  no  awe  of 
him. 

"What's  the  use  of  a  yacht  nowadays?"  Collier 
was  saying — "what's  the  use  of  a  yacht,  when  you 
can  go  to  sleep  in  a  wagon-lit  at  the  Gare  du  Nord, 
and  wake  up  at  Vladivostok?  And  look  at  the 
time  it  saves ;  eleven  days  to  Gib,  six  to  Port  Said, 
and  fifteen  to  Colombo — there  you  are,  only  half 
way  around,  and  you're  already  sixteen  days  be 
hind  the  man  in  the  wagon-lit." 

"But  nobody  wants  to  go  to  Vladivostok,"  said 
Miss  Cameron,  "or  anywhere  else  in  a  wagon-lit. 
But  with  a  yacht  you  can  explore  out-of-the-way 
places,  and  you  meet  new  and  interesting  people. 
We  wouldn't  have  met  Sir  Charles  if  we  had  wait 
ed  for  a  wagon-lit."  She  bowed  her  head  to  the 
Governor,  and  he  smiled  with  gratitude.  He  had 
lost  Mr.  Collier  somewhere  in  the  Indian  Ocean, 

219 


The  Vagrant 


and  he  was  glad  she  had  brought  them  back  to 
the  Windless  Isles  once  more. 

"And  again  I  repeat  that  the  answer  to  that  is, 
'Why  not?  said  the  March  Hare,'  "  remarked 
Mr.  Collier,  determinedly. 

The  answer,  as  an  answer,  did  not  strike  Sir 
Charles  as  a  very  good  one.  But  the  ladies  seemed 
to  comprehend,  for  Miss  Cameron  said:  "Did  I 
tell  you  about  meeting  him  at  Oxford  just  a  few 
months  before  his  death — at  a  children's  tea- 
party?  He  was  so  sweet  and  understanding  with 
them!  Two  women  tried  to  lionize  him,  and  he 
ran  away  and  played  with  the  children.  I  was 
more  glad  to  meet  him  than  anyone  I  can  think 
of.  Not  as  a  personage,  you  know,  but  because 
I  felt  grateful  to  him." 

"Yes,  that  way,  distinctly,"  said  Mrs.  Collier. 
"I  should  have  felt  that  way  toward  Mrs.  Ewing 
more  than  anyone  else." 

"I  know,  'Jackanapes,' '  remarked  Collier, 
shortly;  "a  brutal  assault  upon  the  feelings,  I  say." 

"Someone  else  said  it  before  you,  Robert," 
Mrs.  Collier  commented,  calmly.  "Perhaps  Sir 
Charles  met  him  at  Apia."  They  all  turned  and 
looked  at  him.  He  wished  he  could  say  he  had 
met  him  at  Apia.  He  did  not  quite  see  how  they 
had  made  their  way  from  a  children's  tea-party 
at  Oxford  to  the  South  Pacific  islands,  but  he  was 

220 


The  Vagrant 


anxious  to  join  in  somewhere  with  a  clever  obser 
vation.  But  they  never  seemed  to  settle  in  one 
place  sufficiently  long  for  him  to  recollect  what 
he  knew  of  it.  He  hoped  they  would  get  around 
to  the  west  coast  of  Africa  in  time.  He  had  been 
Governor  of  Sierra  Leone  for  five  years. 

His  success  that  night  at  dinner  on  the  yacht 
was  far  better.  The  others  seemed  a  little  tired 
after  the  hours  of  sight-seeing  to  which  he  had 
treated  them,  and  they  were  content  to  listen.  In 
the  absence  of  Mr.  Clarges,  who  knew  them  word 
by  word,  he  felt  free  to  tell  his  three  stories  of  life 
at  Sierra  Leone.  He  took  his  time  in  the  telling, 
and  could  congratulate  himself  that  his  efforts  had 
never  been  more  keenly  appreciated.  He  felt  that 
he  was  holding  his  own. 

The  night  was  still  and  warm,  and  while  the 
men  lingered  below  at  the  table,  the  two  women 
mounted  to  the  deck  and  watched  the  lights  of 
the  town  as  they  vanished  one  by  one  and  left  the 
moon  in  unchallenged  possession  of  the  harbor. 
For  a  long  time  Miss  Cameron  stood  silent,  look 
ing  out  across  the  bay  at  the  shore  and  the  hills 
beyond.  A  fish  splashed  near  them,  and  the  sound 
of  oars  rose  from  the  mist  that  floated  above  the 
water,  until  they  were  muffled  in  the  distance.  The 
palms  along  the  shore  glistened  like  silver,  and 
overhead  the  Southern  Cross  shone  white  against 

221 


The  Vagrant 


a  sky  of  purple.  The  silence  deepened  and  con 
tinued  for  so  long  a  time  that  Mrs.  Collier  felt 
its  significance,  and  waited  for  the  girl  to  end  it. 

Miss  Cameron  raised  her  eyes  to  the  stars  and 
frowned.  "I  am  not  surprised  that  he  is  content 
to  stay  here,"  she  said.  "Are  you?  It  is  so  beau 
tiful,  so  wonderfully  beautiful." 

For  a  moment  Mrs.  Collier  made  no  answer. 
"Two  years  is  a  long  time,  Florence,"  she  said; 
"and  he  is  all  I  have;  he  is  not  only  my  only 
brother,  he  is  the  only  living  soul  who  is  related 
to  me.  That  makes  it  harder." 

The  girl  seemed  to  find  some  implied  reproach 
in  the  speech,  for  she  turned  and  looked  at  her 
friend  closely.  "Do  you  feel  it  is  my  fault,  Alice  ?" 
she  asked. 

The  older  woman  shook  her  head.  "How 
could  it  be  your  fault?"  she  answered.  "If  you 
couldn't  love  him  enough  to  marry  him,  you 
couldn't,  that's  all.  But  that  is  no  reason  why 
he  should  have  hidden  himself  from  all  of  us. 
Even  if  he  could  not  stand  being  near  you,  caring 
as  he  did,  he  need  not  have  treated  me  so.  We 
have  done  all  we  can  do,  and  Robert  has  been 
more  than  fine  about  it.  He  and  his  agents  have 
written  to  every  consul  and  business  house  in  Cen 
tral  America,  and  I  don't  believe  there  is  a  city 
that  he  hasn't  visited.  He  has  sent  him  money 

222 


The  Vagrant 


and  letters  to  every  bank  and  to  every  post- 
office " 

The  girl  raised  her  head  quickly. 

" — but  he  never  calls  for  either,"  Mrs.  Collier 
continued,  "for  I  know  that  if  he  had  read  my 
letters  he  would  have  come  home." 

The  girl  lifted  her  head  as  though  she  were 
about  to  speak,  and  then  turned  and  walked  slow 
ly  away.  After  a  few  moments  she  returned,  and 
stood,  with  her  hands  resting  on  the  rail,  looking 
down  into  the  water.  "I  wrote  him  two  letters," 
she  said.  In  the  silence  of  the  night  her  voice  was 
unusually  clear  and  distinct.  "I — you  make  me 
wonder — if  they  ever  reached  him." 

Mrs.  Collier,  with  her  eyes  fixed  upon  the  girl, 
rose  slowly  from  her  chair  and  came  toward  her. 
She  reached  out  her  hand  and  touched  Miss  Cam 
eron  on  the  arm.  "Florence,"  she  said,  in  a  whis 
per,  "have  you " 

The  girl  raised  her  head  slowly,  and  lowered 
it  again.  "Yes,"  she  answered;  "I  told  him  to 
come  back — to  come  back  to  me.  Alice,"  she 
cried,  "I — I  begged  him  to  come  back!"  She 
tossed  her  hands  apart  and  again  walked  rapidly 
away,  leaving  the  older  woman  standing  motion 
less. 

A  moment  later,  when  Sir  Charles  and  Mr.  Col 
lier  stepped  out  upon  the  deck,  they  discovered 

223 


The  Vagrant 

the  two  women  standing  close  together,  two  white, 
ghostly  figures  in  the  moonlight,  and  as  they  ad 
vanced  toward  them  they  saw  Mrs.  Collier  take 
the  girl  for  an  instant  in  her  arms. 

Sir  Charles  was  asking  Miss  Cameron  how  long 
she  thought  an  immigrant  should  be  made  to  work 
for  his  freehold  allotment,  when  Mr.  Collier  and 
his  wife  rose  at  the  same  moment  and  departed 
on  separate  errands.  They  met  most  mysteriously 
in  the  shadow  of  the  wheel-house. 

"What  is  it?  Is  anything  wrong  with  Flor 
ence?"  Collier  asked,  anxiously.  "Not  homesick, 
is  she?" 

Mrs.  Collier  put  her  hands  on  her  husband's 
shoulder  and  shook  her  head. 

"Wrong?  No,  thank  Heaven!  it's  as  right  as 
-*  right  can  be !"  she  cried.  "She's  written  to  him 
to  come  back,  but  he's  never  answered,  and  so — 
and  now  it's  all  right." 

Mr.  Collier  gazed  blankly  at  his  wife's  upturned 
face.  "Well,  I  don't  see  that,"  he  remonstrated. 
"What's  the  use  of  her  being  in  love  with  him 
now  when  he  can't  be  found?  What?  Why 
didn't  she  love  him  two  years  ago  when  he  was 
where  you  could  get  at  him — at  her  house,  for 
instance.  He  was  there  most  of  his  time.  She 
*&l  would  have  saved  a  lot  of  trouble.  However," 

he  added,  energetically,  "this  makes  it  absolutely 

224 


The  Vagrant 


necessary  to  find  that  young  man  and  bring  him 
to  his  senses.  We'll  search  this  place  for  the  next 
few  days,  and  then  we'll  try  the  mainland  again. 
I  think  I'll  offer  a  reward  for  him,  and  have  it 
printed  in  Spanish,  and  paste  it  up  in  all  the  pla 
zas.  We  might  add  a  line  in  English,  'She  has 
changed  her  mind.'  That  would  bring  him  home, 
wouldn't  it?" 

"Don't  be  unfeeling,  Robert,"  said  Mrs.  Col 
lier. 

Her  husband  raised  his  eyes  appealingly,  and 
addressed  himself  to  the  moon.  "I  ask  you  now," 
he  complained,  "is  that  fair  to  a  man  who  has 
spent  six  months  on  muleback  trying  to  round  up 
a  prodigal  brother-in-law?" 

That  same  evening,  after  the  ladies  had  gone 
below,  Mr.  Collier  asked  Sir  Charles  to  assist  him 
in  his  search  for  his  wife's  brother,  and  Sir  Charles 
heartily  promised  his  most  active  co-operation. 
There  were  several  Americans  at  work  in  the  in 
terior,  he  said,  as  overseers  on  the  coffee-planta 
tions.  It  was  possible  that  the  runaway  might 
be  among  them.  It  was  only  that  morning,  Sir 
Charles  remembered,  that  an  American  had  been 
at  work  "repairing  his  lawn-mower,"  as  he  con 
siderately  expressed  it.  He  would  send  for  him 
on  the  morrow. 

But  on  the  morrow  the  slave  of  the  lawn-mower 
225 


. 


The  Vagrant 


was  reported  on  the  list  of  prisoners  as  "missing," 
and  Corporal  Mallon  was  grieved,  but  refused  to 
consider  himself  responsible.  Sir  Charles  himself 
had  allowed  the  vagrant  unusual  freedom,  and  the 
vagrant  had  taken  advantage  of  it,  and  probably 
escaped  to  the  hills,  or  up  the  river  to  the  logwood 
camp. 

"Telegraph  a  description  of  him  to  Inspector 
Garrett,"  Sir  Charles  directed,  "and  to  the  heads 
of  all  up  stations.  And  when  he  returns,  bring 
him  to  me." 

So  great  was  his  zeal  that  Sir  Charles  further 
offered  to  join  Mr.  Collier  in  his  search  among 
the  outlying  plantations;  but  Mr.  Collier  preferred 
to  work  alone.  He  accordingly  set  out  at  once, 
armed  with  letters  to  the  different  district  inspect 
ors,  and  in  his  absence  delegated  to  Sir  Charles 
the  pleasant  duty  of  caring  for  the  wants  of  Miss 
Cameron  and  his  wife.  Sir  Charles  regarded  the 
latter  as  deserving  of  all  sympathy,  for  Mr.  Col 
lier,  in  his  efforts  to  conceal  the  fact  from  the 
Governor  that  Florence  Cameron  was  responsible, 
or  in  any  way  concerned  in  the  disappearance  of 
the  missing  man,  had  been  too  mysterious.  Sir 
Charles  was  convinced  that  the  fugitive  had  swin 
dled  his  brother-in-law  and  stolen  his  sister's 
Jewels. 

The  days  which  followed  were  to  the  Governor 
226 


The  Vagrant 


days  and  nights  of  strange  discoveries.  He  rec« 
ognized  that  the  missionaries  from  the  great  out 
side  world  had  invaded  his  shores  and  dis 
turbed  his  gods  and  temples.  Their  religion  of 
progress  and  activity  filled  him  with  doubt  and 
unrest. 

"In  this  century,"  Mr.  Collier  had  declared, 
"nothing  can  stand  still.  It's  the  same  with  a 
corporation,  or  a  country,  or  a  man.  We  must 
either  march  ahead  or  fall  out.  We  can't  mark 
time.  What?" 

"Exactly — certainly  not,"  Sir  Charles  had  an 
swered.  But  in  his  heart  he  knew  that  he  himself 
had  been  marking  time  under  these  soft  tropical 
skies  while  the  world  was  pushing  forward.  The 
thought  had  not  disturbed  him  before.  Now  he 
felt  guilty.  He  conceived  a  sudden  intolerance, 
if  not  contempt,  for  the  little  village  of  white 
washed  houses,  for  the  rafts  of  mahogany  and  of 
logwood  that  bumped  against  the  pier-heads,  for 
the  sacks  of  coffee  piled  high  like  barricades  un 
der  the  corrugated  zinc  sheds  along  the  wharf. 
Each  season  it  had  been  his  pride  to  note  the  in 
crease  in  these  exports.  The  development  of  the 
resources  of  his  colony  had  been  a  work  in  which 
he  had  felt  that  the  Colonial  Secretary  took  an 
immediate  interest.  He  had  believed  that  he  was 
one  of  the  important  wheels  of  the  machinery 

227 


The  Vagrant 

which  moved  the  British  Empire:  and  now,  in  a 
day,  he  was  undeceived.  It  was  forced  upon  him 
that  to  the  eyes  of  the  outside  world  he  was  only 
a  green-grocer  operating  on  a  large  scale;  he  pro 
vided  the  British  public  with  coffee  for  its  break 
fast,  with  drugs  for  its  stomach,  and  with  strange 
woods  for  its  dining-room  furniture  and  walking- 
sticks.  He  combated  this  ignominious  character 
ization  of  his  position  indignantly.  The  new  ai> 
rivals  certainly  gave  him  no  hint  that  they  con 
sidered  him  so  lightly.  This  thought  greatly  com 
forted  him,  for  he  felt  that  in  some  way  he  was 
summoning  to  his  aid  all  of  his  assets  and  re 
sources  to  meet  an  expert  and  final  valuation.  As 
he  ranged  them  before  him  he  was  disturbed  and 
happy  to  find  that  the  value  he  placed  upon  them 
was  the  value  they  would  have  in  the  eyes  of  a 
young  girl — not  a  girl  of  the  shy,  mother-obeying, 
man-worshipping  English  type,  but  a  girl  such  as 
Miss  Cameron  seemed  to  be,  a  girl  who  could  un 
derstand  what  you  were  trying  to  say  before  you 
said  it,  who  could  take  an  interest  in  rates  of  ex 
change  and  preside  at  a  dinner  table,  who  was 
charmingly  feminine  and  clever,  and  who  was  re 
spectful  of  herself  and  of  others.  In  fact,  he  de 
cided,  with  a  flush,  that  Miss  Cameron  herself 
was  the  young  girl  he  had  in  his  mind. 
"Why  not?"  he  asked. 
228 


The  Vagrant 

The  question  came  to  him  in  his  room,  the  sixth 
night  of  their  visit,  and  he  strode  over  to  the  long 
pier-glass  and  stood  studying  himself  critically  for 
the  first  time  in  years.  He  was  still  a  fine-looking, 
well-kept  man.  His  hair  was  thin,  but  that  fact 
did  not  show;  and  his  waist  was  lost,  but  riding 
and  tennis  would  set  that  right.  He  had  means 
outside  of  his  official  salary,  and  there  was  the 
title,  such  as  it  was.  Lady  Greville  the  wife  of 
the  birthday  knight  sounded  as  well  as  Lady 
Greville  the  marchioness.  And  Americans  cared 
for  these  things.  He  doubted  whether  this  par 
ticular  American  would  do  so,  but  he  was  adding 
up  all  he  had  to  offer,  and  that  was  one  of  the 
assets.  He  was  sure  she  would  not  be  content  to 
remain  mistress  of  the  Windless  Isles.  Nor,  in 
deed,  did  he  longer  care  to  be  master  there,  now 
that  he  had  inhaled  this  quick,  stirring  breath  from 
the  outer  world.  He  would  resign,  and  return 
and  mix  with  the  world  again.  He  would  enter 
Parliament;  a  man  so  well  acquainted  as  himself 
with  the  Gold  Coast  of  Africa  and  with  the  trade 
of  the  West  Indies  must  always  be  of  value  in  the 
Lower  House.  This  value  would  be  recognized, 
no  doubt,  and  he  would  become  at  first  an  Under 
secretary  for  the  Colonies,  and  then,  in  time,  Co 
lonial  Secretary  and  a  cabinet  minister.  She  would 
like  that,  he  thought.  And  after  that  place  had 

229 


The  Vagrant 

been  reached,  all  things  were  possible.  For  years 
he  had  not  dreamed  such  dreams — not  since  he 
had  been  a  clerk  in  the  Foreign  Office.  They 
seemed  just  as  possible  now  as  they  had  seemed 
real  then,  and  just  as  near.  He  felt  it  was  all  ab 
solutely  in  his  own  hands. 

He  descended  to  the  dining-room  with  the  air 
of  a  man  who  already  felt  the  cares  of  high  re 
sponsibility  upon  his  shoulders.  His  head  was 
erect  and  his  chest  thrown  forward.  He  was  ten 
years  younger;  his  manner  was  alert,  assured,  and 
gracious.  As  he  passed  through  the  halls  he  was 
impatient  of  the  familiar  settings  of  Government 
House;  they  seemed  to  him  like  the  furnishings 
of  a  hotel  where  he  had  paid  his  bill,  and  where 
his  luggage  was  lying  strapped  for  departure  in 
the  hallway. 

In  his  library  he  saw  on  his  table  a  number  of 
papers  lying  open  waiting  for  his  signature,  the 
dog-tax  among  the  others.  He  smiled  to  remem 
ber  how  important  it  had  seemed  to  him  in  the 
past — in  that  past  of  indolence  and  easy  content. 
Now  he  was  on  fire  to  put  this  rekindled  ambition 
to  work,  to  tell  the  woman  who  had  lighted  it 
that  it  was  all  from  her  and  for  her,  that  without 
her  he  had  existed,  that  now  he  had  begun  to 
live. 

They  had  never  found  him  so  delightful  as  he 
230 


The  Vagrant 


appeared  that  night.  He  was  like  a  man  on  the 
eve  of  a  holiday.  He  made  a  jest  of  his  past 
efforts;  he  made  them  see,  as  he  now  saw  it  for  the 
first  time,  that  side  of  the  life  of  the  Windless 
Isles  which  was  narrow  and  petty,  even  ridiculous. 
He  talked  of  big  men  in  a  big  way;  he  criticised, 
and  expounded,  and  advanced  his  own  theories  of 
government  and  the  proper  control  of  an  em 
pire. 

Collier,  who  had  returned  from  his  unsuccess 
ful  search  of  the  plantations,  shook  his  head. 

"It's  a  pity  you  are  not  in  London  now,"  he 
said,  sincerely.  "They  need  someone  there  who 
has  been  on  the  spot.  They  can't  direct  the  colo 
nies  from  what  they  know  of  them  in  White 
hall." 

Sir  Charles  fingered  the  dinner-cloth  nervously, 
and  when  he  spoke,  fixed  his  eyes  anxiously  upon 
Miss  Cameron. 

"Do  you  know,"  he  said,  "I  have  been  thinking 
of  doing  that  very  thing,  of  resigning  my  post 
here  and  going  back,  entering  Parliament,  and  all 
the  rest  of  it." 

His  declaration  met  with  a  unanimous  chorus 
of  delight.  Miss  Cameron  nodded  her  head  with 
eager  approval. 

"Yes,  if  I  were  a  man,  that  is  where  I  should 
wish  to  be,"  she  said,  "at  the  heart  of  it.  Why, 

231 


The  Vagrant 


whatever  you  say  in  the  House  of  Commons  is 
heard  all  over  the  world  the  next  morning." 

Sir  Charles  felt  the  blood  tingle  in  his  pulses. 
He  had  not  been  so  stirred  in  years.  Her  words 
ran  to  his  head  like  wine. 

Mr.  Collier  raised  his  glass. 

"Here's  to  our  next  meeting,"  he  said,  "on  the 
terrace  of  the  House  of  Commons." 

But  Miss  Cameron  interrupted.  "No;  to  the 
Colonial  Secretary,"  she  amended. 

"Oh,  yes,"  they  assented,  rising,  and  so  drank 
his  health,  smiling  down  upon  him  with  kind, 
friendly  glances  and  good-will. 

"To  the  Colonial  Secretary,"  they  said.  Sir 
Charles  clasped  the  arms  of  his  chair  tightly  with 
his  hands;  his  eyes  were  half  closed,  and  his  lips 
pressed  into  a  grim,  confident  smile.  He  felt  that 
a  single  word  from  her  would  make  all  that  they 
suggested  possible.  If  she  cared  for  such  things, 
they  were  hers;  he  had  them  to  give;  they  were 
ready  lying  at  her  feet.  He  knew  that  the  power 
had  always  been  with  him,  lying  dormant  in  his 
heart  and  brain.  It  had  only  waited  for  the  touch 
of  the  Princess  to  wake  it  into  life. 

The  American  visitors  were  to  sail  for  the  main 
land  the  next  day,  but  he  had  come  to  know  them 
so  well  in  the  brief  period  of  their  visit  that  he 
felt  he  dared  speak  to  her  that  same  night.  At 

232 


The  Vagrant 


least  he  could  give  her  some  word  that  would  keep 
him  in  her  mind  until  they  met  again  in  London, 
or  until  she  had  considered  her  answer.  He  could 
not  expect  her  to  answer  at  once.  She  could  take 
much  time.  What  else  had  he  to  do  now  but  to 
wait  for  her  answer?  It  was  now  all  that  made 
life. 

Collier  and  his  wife  had  left  the  veranda  and 
had  crossed  the  lawn  toward  the  water's  edge. 
The  moonlight  fell  full  upon  them  with  all  the 
splendor  of  the  tropics,  and  lit  the  night  with  a 
brilliant,  dazzling  radiance.  From  where  Miss 
Cameron  sat  on  the  veranda  in  the  shadow,  Sir 
Charles  could  see  only  the  white  outline  of  her 
figure  and  the  indolent  movement  of  her  fan.  Col 
lier  had  left  his  wife  and  was  returning  slowly 
toward  the  step.  Sir  Charles  felt  that  if  he  meant 
to  speak  he  must  speak  now,  and  quickly.  He 
rose  and  placed  himself  beside  her  in  the  shadow, 
and  the  girl  turned  her  head  inquiringly  and  looked 
up  at  him. 

But  on  the  instant  the  hush  of  the  night  was 
broken  by  a  sharp  challenge,  and  the  sound  of 
men's  voices  raised  in  anger;  there  was  the  noise 
of  a  struggle  on  the  gravel,  and  from  the  corner 
of  the  house  the  two  sentries  came  running,  drag 
ging  between  them  a  slight  figure  that  fought  and 
wrestled  to  be  free. 

233 


The  Vagrant 


Sir  Charles  exclaimed  with  indignant  impatience, 
and,  turning,  strode  quickly  to  the  head  of  the 
steps. 

"What  does  this  mean?"  he  demanded.  "What 
are  you  doing  with  that  man  ?  Why  did  you  bring 
him  here?" 

As  the  soldiers  straightened  to  attention,  their 
prisoner  ceased  to  struggle,  and  stood  with  his 
head  bent  on  his  chest.  His  sombrero  was  pulled 
down  low  across  his  forehead. 

"He  was  crawling  through  the  bushes,  Sir 
Charles,"  the  soldier  panted,  "watching  that  gen 
tleman,  sir," — he  nodded  over  his  shoulder  toward 
Collier.  "I  challenged,  and  he  jumped  to  run, 
and  we  collared  him.  He  resisted,  Sir  Charles." 

The  mind  of  the  Governor  was  concerned  with 
other  matters  than  trespassers. 

"Well,  take  him  to  the  barracks,  then,"  he  said. 
"Report  to  me  in  the  morning.  That  will  do." 

The  prisoner  wheeled  eagerly,  without  further 
show  of  resistance,  and  the  soldiers  closed  in  on 
him  on  either  side.  But  as  the  three  men  moved 
away  together,  their  faces,  which  had  been  in 
shadow,  were  now  turned  toward  Mr.  Collier,  who 
was  advancing  leisurely,  and  with  silent  footsteps, 
across  the  grass.  He  met  them  face  to  face,  and 
as  he  did  so  the  prisoner  sprang  back  and  threw 
out  his  arms  in  front  of  him,  with  the  gesture  of 

234 


The  Vagrant 


a  man  who  entreats  silence.  Mr.  Collier  halted 
as  though  struck  to  stone,  and  the  two  men  con 
fronted  each  other  without  moving. 

"Good  God!"  Mr.  Collier  whispered. 

He  turned  stiffly  and  slowly,  as  though  in  a 
trance,  and  beckoned  to  his  wife,  who  had  fol 
lowed  him. 

"Alice!"  he  called.  He  stepped  backward 
toward  her  and,  taking  her  hand  in  one  of  his 
drew  her  toward  the  prisoner.  "Here  he  is!"  he 
said. 

They  heard  her  cry  "Henry!"  with  the  fierce 
ness  of  a  call  for  help,  and  saw  her  rush  forward 
and  stumble  into  the  arms  of  the  prisoner,  and 
their  two  heads  were  bent  close  together. 

Collier  ran  up  the  steps  and  explained  breath 
lessly. 

"And  now,"  he  gasped,  in  conclusion,  "what's 
to  be  done?  What's  he  arrested  for?  Is  it  bail 
able?  What?" 

"Good  heavens!"  exclaimed  Sir  Charles,  mis 
erably.  "It  is  my  fault  entirely.  I  assure  you  I 
had  no  idea.  How  could  I?  But  I  should  have 
known,  I  should  have  guessed  it."  He  dismissed 
the  sentries  with  a  gesture.  "That  will  do,"  he 
said.  "Return  to  your  posts." 

Mr.  Collier  laughed  with  relief. 

"Then  it  is  not  serious?"  he  asked. 
235 


The  Vagrant 

"He — he  had  no  money,  that  was  all,'y  ex 
claimed  Sir  Charles.  "Serious?  Certainly  not. 
Upon  my  word,  I'm  sorry " 

The  young  man  had  released  himself  from  his 
sister's  embrace,  and  was  coming  toward  them; 
and  Sir  Charles,  eager  to  redeem  himself,  ad 
vanced  hurriedly  to  greet  him.  But  the  young 
man  did  not  see  him;  he  was  looking  past  him 
up  the  steps  to  where  Miss  Cameron  stood  in  the 
shadow. 

Sir  Charles  hesitated  and  drew  back.  The 
young  man  stopped  at  the  foot  of  the  steps,  and 
stood  with  his  head  raised,  staring  up  at  the  white 
figure  of  the  girl,  who  came  slowly  forward. 

It  was  forced  upon  Sir  Charles  that  in  spite  of 
the  fact  that  the  young  man  before  them  had  but 
just  then  been  rescued  from  arrest,  that  in  spite 
of  his  mean  garments  and  ragged  sandals,  some 
thing  about  him — the  glamour  that  surrounds  the 
prodigal,  or  possibly  the  moonlight — gave  him  an 
air  of  great  dignity  and  distinction. 

As  Miss  Cameron  descended  the  stairs,  Sir 
Charles  recognized  for  the  first  time  that  the  young 
man  was  remarkably  handsome,  and  he  resented 
it.  It  hurt  him,  as  did  also  the  prodigal's  youth 
and  his  assured  bearing.  He  felt  a  sudden  sinking 
fear,  a  weakening  of  all  his  vital  forces,  and  he 
drew  in  his  breath  slowly  and  deeply.  But  no 

236 


The  young  man  stood  staring  up  at  the  white  figure  of 
the  girl. 


The  Vagrant 

one  noticed  him;  they  were  looking  at  the  tall 
figure  of  the  prodigal,  standing  with  his  hat  at  his 
hip  and  his  head  thrown  back,  holding  the  girl 
with  his  eyes. 

Collier  touched  Sir  Charles  on  the  arm,  and 
nodded  his  head  toward  the  library.  "Come," 
he  whispered,  "let  us  old  people  leave  them  to 
gether.  They've  a  good  deal  to  say."  Sir  Charles 
obeyed  in  silence,  and,  crossing  the  library  to  the 
great  oak  door,  seated  himself  and  leaned  wearily 
on  the  table  before  him.  He  picked  up  one  of 
the  goose  quills  and  began  separating  it  into  little 
pieces.  Mr.  Collier  was  pacing  up  and  down, 
biting  excitedly  on  the  end  of  his  cigar.  "Well, 
this  has  certainly  been  a  great  night,"  he  said. 
"And  it  is  all  due  to  you,  Sir  Charles — all  due  to 
you.  Yes,  they  have  you  to  thank  for  it." 

"They?"  said  Sir  Charles.  He  knew  that  it 
had  to  come.  He  wanted  the  man  to  strike 
quickly. 

"They?  Yes — Florence  Cameron  and  Henry," 
Mr.  Collier  answered.  "Henry  went  away  because 
she  wouldn't  marry  him.  She  didn't  care  for  him 
then,  but  afterward  she  cared.  Now  they're  re 
united, — and  so  they're  happy;  and  my  wife  is 
more  than  happy,  and  I  won't  have  to  bother  any 
more;  and  it's  all  right,  and  all  through  you." 

"I  am  glad,"  said  Sir  Charles.  There  was  a 
237 


The  Vagrant 

long  pause,  which  the  men,  each  deep  in  his  own 
thoughts,  did  not  notice. 

"You  will  be  leaving  now,  I  suppose?"  Sir 
Charles  asked.  He  was  looking  down,  examining 
the  broken  pen  in  his  hand. 

Mr.  Collier  stopped  in  his  walk  and  considered. 
"Yes,  I  suppose  they  will  want  to  get  back,*'  he 
said.  "I  shall  be  sorry  myself.  And  you  ?  What 
will  you  do?" 

Sir  Charles  started  slightly.  He  had  not  yet 
thought  what  he  would  do.  His  eyes  wandered 
over  the  neglected  work  which  had  accumulated 
on  the  desk  before  him.  Only  an  hour  before  he 
had  thought  of  it  as  petty  and  little,  as  something 
unworthy  of  his  energy.  Since  that  time  what 
change  had  taken  place  in  him? 

For  him  everything  had  changed,  he  answered, 
but  in  him  there  had  been  no  change;  and  if  this 
thing  which  the  girl  had  brought  into  his  life  had 
meant  the  best  in  life,  it  must  always  mean  that. 
She  had  been  an  inspiration;  she  must  remain  his 
spring  of  action.  Was  he  a  slave,  he  asked  him 
self,  that  he  should  rebel?  Was  he  a  boy,  that 
he  could  turn  his  love  to  aught  but  the  best  ac 
count  ?  He  must  remember  her  not  as  the  woman 
who  had  crushed  his  spirit,  but  as  she  who  had 
helped  him,  who  had  lifted  him  up  to  something 
better  and  finer.  He  would  make  sacrifice  in  her 

238 


The  Vagrant 


name ;  it  would  be  in  her  name  that  he  would  rise 
to  high  places  and  accomplish  much  good. 

She  would  not  know  this,  but  he  would  know. 

He  rose  and  brushed  the  papers  away  from  him 
with  an  impatient  sweep  of  the  hand. 

"I  shall  follow  out  the  plan  of  which  I  spoke 
at  dinner,"  he  answered.  "I  shall  resign  here, 
and  return  home  and  enter  Parliament." 

Mr.  Collier  laughed  admiringly.  "I  love  the 
way  you  English  take  your  share  of  public  life," 
he  said,  "the  way  you  spend  yourselves  for  your 
country,  and  give  your  brains,  your  lives,  every 
thing  you  have — all  for  the  empire." 

Through  the  open  window  Sir  Charles  saw  Miss 
Cameron  half  hidden  by  the  vines  of  the  veranda. 
The  moonlight  falling  about  her  transformed  her 
into  a  figure  which  was  ideal,  mysterious,  and  elu 
sive,  like  a  woman  in  a  dream.  He  shook  his  head 
wearily.  "For  the  empire?"  he  asked. 


239 


THE  LAST  RIDE  TOGETHER 


The  Last  Ride  Together 

A   SKETCH   CONTAINING   THREE 
POINTS  OF  VIEW 

What  the  Poet  Laureate  wrote 


«  rr^HERE  are  girls  in  the  Gold  Reef  City, 

A   There  are  mothers  and  children  too! 
And  they  cry  'Hurry  up,  for  pityl* 
So  what  can  a  brave  man  do? 

"I  suppose  we  were  wrong,  were  mad  men, 
Still  I  think  at  the  Judgment  Day, 

When  God  sifts  the  good  from  the  bad  men, 
There'll  be  something  more  to  say." 

What  more  the  Lord  Chief  Justice  found  to  say 

"In  this  case  we  know  the  immediate  conse 
quence  of  your  crime.  It  has  been  the  loss  of 
human  life,  it  has  been  the  disturbance  of  public 
peace,  it  has  been  the  creation  of  a  certain  sense 
of  distrust  of  public  professions  and  of  public 

243 


The  Last  Ride  Together 

faith.  .  .  .  The  sentence  of  this  court  there 
fore  is  thatj  as  to  you,  Leander  Starr  Jameson, 
you  be  confined  for  a  period  of  fifteen  months  with 
out  hard  labor;  that  you,  Sir  John  Willoughby, 
have  ten  months'  imprisonment;  and  that  you, 
etc.,  etc." 

London   Hints,  July  29th. 


What  the  Hon.  "Reggie"  Blake  thought  about  it 

**  H.  M.  HOLLOWAY  PRISON, 
"July  a8th. 

"I  am  going  to  keep  a  diary  while  I  am  in 
prison;  that  is,  if  they  will  let  me.  I  never  kept 
one  before,  because  I  hadn't  the  time.  When  I 
was  home  on  leave  there  was  too  much  going  on  to 
bother  about  it,  and  when  I  was  up  country  I  al 
ways  came  back  after  a  day's  riding  so  tired  that 
I  was  too  sleepy  to  write  anything.  And  now  that 
I  have  the  time,  I  won't  have  anything  to  write 
about.  I  fancy  that  more  things  happened  to  me 
to-day  than  are  likely  to  happen  again  for  the 
next  eight  months,  so  I  will  make  this  day  take  up 
as  much  room  in  the  diary  as  it  can.  I  am  writing 
this  on  the  back  of  the  paper  the  Warder  uses  for 
his  official  reports,  while  he  is  hunting  up  cells  to 
put  us  in.  We  came  down  on  him  rather  unex 
pectedly  and  he  is  nervous. 

244 


The  Last  Ride  Together 

"Of  course,  I  had  prepared  myself  for  this 
after  a  fashion,  but  now  I  see  that  somehow  I 
never  really  did  think  I  would  be  in  here,  and  all 
my  friends  outside,  and  everything  going  on  just 
the  same  as  though  I  wasn't  alive  somewhere. 
It's  like  telling  yourself  that  your  horse  can't  pos 
sibly  pull  off  a  race,  so  that  you  won't  mind  so 
much  if  he  doesn't,  but  you  always  feel  just  as  bad 
when  he  comes  in  a  loser.  A  man  can't  fool  him 
self  into  thinking  one  way  when  he  is  hoping  the 
other. 

"But  I  am  glad  it  is  over,  and  settled.  It  was 
a  great  bore  not  knowing  your  luck  and  having 
the  thing  hanging  over  your  head  every  morning 
when  you  woke  up.  Indeed  it  was  quite  a  relief 
when  the  counsel  got  all  through  arguing  over 
those  proclamations,  and  the  Chief  Justice  summed 
up,  but  I  nearly  went  to  sleep  when  I  found  he 
was  going  all  over  it  again  to  the  jury.  I  didn't 
understand  about  those  proclamations  myself,  and 
I'll  lay  a  fiver  the  jury  didn't,  either.  The  Colonel 
said  he  didn't.  I  couldn't  keep  my  mind  on  what 
Russell  was  explaining  about,  and  I  got  to  think 
ing  how  much  old  Justice  Hawkins  looked  like  the 
counsel  in  'Alice  in  Wonderland'  when  they  tried 
the  knave  of  spades  for  stealing  the  tarts.  He 
had  just  the  same  sort  of  a  beak  and  the  same  sort 
of  a  wig,  and  I  wondered  why  he  had  his  wig 

245 


The  Last  Ride  Together 

powdered  and  the  others  didn't.  Pollock's  wig 
had  a  hole  in  the  top;  you  could  see  it  when  he 
bent  over  to  take  notes.  He  was  always  taking 
notes.  I  don't  believe  he  understood  about  those 
proclamations,  either;  he  never  seemed  to  listen, 
anyway. 

"The  Chief  Justice  certainly  didn't  love  us  very 
much,  that's  sure;  and  he  wasn't  going  to  let  any 
body  else  love  us  either.  I  felt  quite  the  Christian 
Martyr  when  Sir  Edward  was  speaking  in  de 
fence.  He  made  it  sound  as  though  we  were  all 
a  lot  of  Adelphi  heroes  and  ought  to  be  promoted 
and  have  medals,  but  when  Lord  Russell  started 
in  to  read  the  Riot  Act  at  us  I  began  to  believe 
that  hanging  was  too  good  for  me.  I'm  sure  I 
never  knew  I  was  disturbing  the  peace  of  nations; 
it  seems  like  such  a  large  order  for  a  subaltern. 

"But  the  worst  was  when  they  made  us  stand 
up  before  all  those  people  to  be  sentenced.  I  must 
say  I  felt  shaky  about  the  knees  then,  not  because 
I  was  afraid  of  what  was  coming,  but  because  it 
was  the  first  time  I  had  ever  been  pointed  out  be 
fore  people,  and  made  to  feel  ashamed.  And 
having  those  girls  there,  too,  looking  at  one.  That 
wasn't  just  fair  to  us.  It  made  me  feel  about  ten 
years  old,  and  I  remembered  how  the  Head  Mas 
ter  used  to  call  me  to  his  desk  and  say,  'Blake 
Senior,  two  pages  of  Horace  and  keep  in  bounds 

246 


The  Last  Ride  Together 

for  a  week.'  And  then  I  heard  our  names  and 
the  months,  and  my  name  and  'eight  months'  im 
prisonment,'  and  there  was  a  bustle  and  murmur 
and  the  tipstaves  cried,  'Order  in  the  Court,'  and 
the  Judges  stood  up  and  shook  out  their  big  red 
skirts  as  though  they  were  shaking  off  the  contam 
ination  of  our  presence,  and  rustled  away,  and  I 
sat  down,  wondering  how  long  eight  months  was, 
and  wishing  they'd  given  me  as  much  as  they  gave 
Jameson. 

"They  put  us  in  a  room  together  then,  and  our 
counsel  said  how  sorry  they  were,  and  shook  hands, 
and  went  off  to  dinner  and  left  us.  I  thought  they 
might  have  waited  with  us  and  been  a  little  late 
for  dinner  just  that  once;  but  no  one  waited  ex 
cept  a  lot  of  costers  outside  whom  we  did  not 
know.  It  was  eight  o'clock  and  still  quite  light 
when  we  came  out,  and  there  was  a  line  of  four- 
wheelers  and  a  hansom  ready  for  us.  I'd  been 
hoping  they  would  take  us  out  by  the  Strand  en 
trance,  just  because  I'd  like  to  have  seen  it  again, 
but  they  marched  us  instead  through  the  main 
quadrangle — a  beastly,  gloomy  courtyard  that 
echoed — and  out  into  Carey  Street — such  a  dirty, 
gloomy  street.  The  costers  and  clerks  set  up  a 
sort  of  a  cheer  when  we  came  out,  and  one  of  them 
cried,  'God  bless  you,  sir,'  to  the  doctor,  but  I 
was  sorry  they  cheered.  It  seemed  like  kicking 

247 


The  Last  Ride  Together 

against  the  umpire's  decision.  The  Colonel  and  I 
got  into  a  hansom  together  and  we  trotted  off  into 
Chancery  Lane  and  turned  into  Holborn.  Most 
of  the  shops  were  closed,  and  the  streets  looked 
empty,  but  there  was  a  lighted  clock-face  over 
Mooney's  public-house,  and  the  hands  stood  at  a 
quarter  past  eight.  I  didn't  know  where  Hollo- 
way  was,  and  was  hoping  they  would  have  to  take 
us  through  some  decent  streets  to  reach  it;  but  we 
didn't  see  a  part  of  the  city  that  meant  anything 
to  me,  or  that  I  would  choose  to  travel  through 
again. 

"Neither  of  us  talked,  and  I  imagined  that  the 
people  in  the  streets  knew  we  were  going  to  prison, 
and  I  kept  my  eyes  on  the  enamel  card  on  the  back 
of  the  apron.  I  suppose  I  read,  'Two-wheeled 
hackney  carnage:  if  hired  and  discharged  within 
the  four-mile  limit,  15.'  at  least  a  hundred  times. 
I  got  more  sensible  after  a  bit,  and  when  we  had 
turned  into  Gray's  Inn  Road  I  looked  up  and  saw 
a  tram  in  front  of  us  with  'Holloway  Road  and 
King's  X,'  painted  on  the  steps,  and  the  Colonel 
saw  it  about  the  same  time,  I  fancy,  for  we  each 
looked  at  the  other,  and  the  Colonel  raised  his 
eyebrows.  It  showed  us  that  at  least  the  cabman 
knew  where  we  were  going. 

:  'They  might  have  taken  us  for  a  turn  through 
the  West  End  first,  I  think,'  the  Colonel  said. 

248 


The  Last  Ride  Together 

Td  like  to  have  had  a  look  around,  wouldn't  you  ? 
This  isn't  a  cheerful  neighborhood,  is  it?' 

"There  were  a  lot  of  children  playing  in  St. 
Andrew's  Gardens,  and  a  crowd  of  them  ran  out 
just  as  we  passed,  shrieking  and  laughing  over 
nothing,  the  way  kiddies  do,  and  that  was  about 
the  only  pleasant  sight  in  the  ride.  I  had  quite 
a  turn  when  we  came  to  the  New  Hospital  just 
beyond,  for  I  thought  it  was  Holloway,  and  it 
came  over  me  what  eight  months  in  such  a  place 
meant.  I  believe  if  I  hadn't  pulled  myself  up 
sharp,  I'd  have  jumped  out  into  the  street  and 
run  away.  It  didn't  last  more  than  a  few  seconds, 
but  I  don't  want  any  more  like  them.  I  was 
afraid,  afraid — there's  no  use  pretending  it  was 
anything  else.  I  was  in  a  dumb,  silly  funk,  and 
I  turned  sick  inside  and  shook,  as  I  have  seen  a 
horse  shake  when  he  shies  at  nothing  and  sweats 
and  trembles  down  his  sides. 

"During  those  few  seconds  it  seemed  to  be  more 
than  I  could  stand;  I  felt  sure  that  I  couldn't  do 
it — that  I'd  go  mad  if  they  tried  to  force  me.  The 
idea  was  so  terrible — of  not  being  master  over 
your  own  legs  and  arms,  to  have  your  flesh  and 
blood  and  what  brains  God  gave  you  buried  alive 
in  stone  walls  as  though  they  were  in  a  safe  with 
a  time-lock  on  the  door  set  for  eight  months  ahead. 
There's  nothing  to  be  afraid  of  in  a  stone  wall 

249 


The  Last  Ride  Together 

really,  but  it's  the  idea  of  the  thing — of  not  being 
free  to  move  about,  especially  to  a  chap  that  has 
always  lived  in  the  open  as  I  have,  and  has  had 
men  under  him.  It  was  no  wonder  I  was  in  a 
funk  for  a  minute.  I'll  bet  a  fiver  the  others  were, 
too,  if  they'll  only  own  up  fo  it.  I  don't  mean 
for  long,  but  just  when  the  idea  first  laid  hold 
of  them.  Anyway,  it  was  a  good  lesson  to  me, 
and  if  I  catch  myself  thinking  of  it  again  I'll  whis 
tle,  or  talk  to  myself  out  loud  and  think  of  some 
thing  cheerful.  And  I  don't  mean  to  be  one  of 
those  chaps  who  spends  his  time  in  jail  counting 
the  stones  in  his  cell,  or  training  spiders,  or  meas 
uring  how  many  of  his  steps  make  a  mile,  for  mad 
ness  lies  that  way.  I  mean  to  sit  tight  and  think 
of  all  the  good  times  I've  had,  and  go  over  them 
in  my  mind  very  slowly,  so  as  to  make  them  last 
longer  and  remember  who  was  there  and  what  we 
said,  and  the  jokes  and  all  that;  I'll  go  over 
house-parties  I  have  been  on,  and  the  times  I've 
had  in  the  Riviera,  and  scouting  parties  Dr.  Jim 
led  up  country  when  we  were  taking  Matabele 
Land. 

"They  say  that  if  you're  good  here  they  give 
you  things  to  read  after  a  month  or  two,  and  then 
I  can  read  op  all  those  instructive  books  that  a 
felloe  never  does  read  until  he's  laid  up  in  bed. 

"But  that's  crowding  ahead  a  bit;  I  must  keep 
250 


The  Last  Ride  Together 

to  what  happened  to-day.  We  struck  York  Road 
at  the  back  of  the  Great  Western  Terminus,  and 
I  half  hoped  we  might  see  some  chap  we  knew 
coming  or  going  away :  I  would  like  to  have  waved 
my  hand  to  him.  It  would  have  been  fun  to  have 
seen  his  surprise  the  next  morning  when  he  read 
in  the  paper  that  he  had  been  bowing  to  jail-birds, 
and  then  I  would  like  to  have  cheated  the  tip 
staves  out  of  just  one  more  friendly  good-by.  I 
wanted  to  say  good-by  to  somebody,  but  I  really 
couldn't  feel  sorry  to  see  the  last  of  anyone  of 
those  we  passed  in  the  streets — they  were  such  a 
dirty,  unhappy-looking  lot,  and  the  railroad  wall 
ran  on  forever  apparently,  and  we  might  have 
been  in  a  foreign  country  for  all  we  knew  of  it. 
There  were  just  sooty  gray  brick  tenements  and 
gas-works  on  one  side,  and  the  railroad  cutting 
on  the  other,  and  semaphores  and  telegraph  wires 
overhead,  and  smoke  and  grime  everywhere,  it 
looked  exactly  like  the  sort  of  street  that  should 
lead  to  a  prison,  and  it  seemed  a  pity  to  take  a 
smart  hansom  and  a  good  cob  into  it. 

"It  was  just  a  bit  different  from  our  last  ride 
together — when  we  rode  through  the  night  from 
Krugers-Dorp  with  hundreds  of  horses'  hoofs 
pounding  on  the  soft  veldt  behind  us,  and  the  car 
bines  clanking  against  the  stirrups  as  they  swung 
on  the  sling  belts.  We  were  being  hunted  then, 

251 


The  Last  Ride  Together 

harassed  on  either  side,  scurrying  for  our  lives  like 
the  Derby  Dog  in  a  race-track  when  everyone 
hoots  him  and  no  man  steps  out  to  help — we  were 
sick  for  sleep,  sick  for  food,  lashed  by  the  rain, 
and  we  knew  that  we  were  beaten;  but  we  were 
free  still,  and  under  open  skies  with  the  derricks 
of  the  Rand  rising  like  gallows  on  our  left,  and 
Johannesburg  only  fifteen  miles  away." 


252 


THE  EDITOR'S  STORY 


The  Editor's  Story 

IT  was  a  warm  afternoon  in  the  early  spring, 
and  the  air  in  the  office  was  close  and  heavy. 
The  letters  of  the  morning  had  been  answered  and 
the  proofs  corrected,  and  the  gentlemen  who  had 
come  with  ideas  worth  one  column  at  space  rates, 
and  which  they  thought  worth  three,  had  com 
promised  with  the  editor  on  a  basis  of  two,  and 
departed.  The  editor's  desk  was  covered  with 
manuscripts  in  a  heap,  a  heap  that  never  seemed 
to  grow  less,  and  each  manuscript  bore  a  character 
of  its  own,  as  marked  or  as  unobtrusive  as  the 
character  of  the  man  or  of  the  woman  who  had 
written  it,  which  disclosed  itself  in  the  care  with 
which  some  were  presented  for  consideration,  in 
the  vain  little  ribbons  of  others,  or  the  selfish 
manner  in  which  still  others  were  tightly  rolled 
or  vilely  scribbled. 

The  editor  held  the  first  page  of  a  poem  in  his 
hand,  and  was  reading  it  mechanically,  for  its 
length  had  already  declared  against  it,  unless  it 
might  chance  to  be  the  precious  gem  out  of  a 
thousand,  which  must  be  chosen  in  spite  of  its 

From  "  CindcreJla  and  Other  Stories."     Copyright,  1898,  by  Charles  Scribner's  Sons. 

25  c 


The  Editor's  Story 

twenty  stanzas.  But  as  the  editor  read,  his  in 
terest  awakened,  and  he  scanned  the  verses  again, 
as  one  would  turn  to  look  a  second  time  at  a  face 
which  seemed  familiar.  At  the  fourth  stanza  his 
memory  was  still  in  doubt,  at  the  sixth  it  was 
warming  to  the  chase,  and  at  the  end  of  the  page 
was  in  full  cry.  He  caught  up  the  second  page 
and  looked  for  the  final  verse,  and  then  at  the 
name  below,  and  then  back  again  quickly  to  the 
title  of  the  poem,  and  pushed  aside  the  papers 
on  his  desk  in  search  of  any  note  which  might 
have  accompanied  it. 

The  name  signed  at  the  bottom  of  the  second 
page  was  Edwin  Aram,  the  title  of  the  poem  was 
"Bohemia,"  and  there  was  no  accompanying  note, 
only  the  name  Berkeley  written  at  the  top  of  the 
first  page.  The  envelope  in  which  it  had  come 
gave  no  further  clew.  It  was  addressed  in  the 
same  handwriting  as  that  in  which  the  poem  had 
been  written,  and  it  bore  the  postmark  of  New 
York  city.  There  was  no  request  for  the  return 
of  the  poem,  no  direction  to  which  either  the  poem 
itself  or  the  check  for  its  payment  in  the  event  of 
its  acceptance  might  be  sent.  Berkeley  might  be 
the  name  of  an  apartment-house,  or  of  a  country 
place,  or  of  a  suburban  town. 

The  editor  stepped  out  of  his  office  into  the 
larger  room  beyond  and  said:  "I've  a  poem  here 

256 


The  Editor's  Story 

that  appeared  in  an  American  magazine  about 
seven  years  ago.  I  remember  the  date,  because  I 
read  it  when  I  was  at  college.  Someone  is  either 
trying  to  play  a  trick  on  us,  or  to  get  money  by 
stealing  some  other  man's  brains." 

It  was  in  this  way  that  Edwin  Aram  first  intro 
duced  himself  to  our  office,  and  while  his  poem 
was  not  accepted,  it  was  not  returned.  On  the 
contrary,  Mr.  Aram  became  to  us  one  of  the  most 
interesting  of  our  would-be  contributors,  and  there 
was  no  author,  no  matter  of  what  popularity,  for 
whose  work  we  waited  with  greater  impatience. 
But  Mr.  Aram's  personality  still  remained  as  com 
pletely  hidden  from  us  as  were  the  productions 
which  he  offered  from  the  sight  of  our  subscribers; 
for  each  of  the  poems  he  sent  had  been  stolen 
outright  and  signed  with  his  name. 

It  was  through  no  fault  of  ours  that  he  con 
tinued  to  blush  unseen,  or  that  his  pretty  taste  in 
poems  was  unappreciated  by  the  general  reader. 
We  followed  up  every  clew  and  every  hint  he 
chose  to  give  us  with  an  enthusiasm  worthy  of  a 
search  after  a  lost  explorer,  and  with  an  animus 
worthy  of  better  game.  Yet  there  was  some  rea 
son  for  our  interest.  The  man  who  steals  the 
work  of  another  and  who  passes  it  off  as  his  own 
is  the  special  foe  of  every  editor,  but  this  particu 
lar  editor  had  a  personal  distrust  of  Mr.  Aram. 

257 


The  Editor's  Story 

He  Imagined  that  these  poems  might  possibly  be 
a  trap  which  someone  had  laid  for  him  with  the 
purpose  of  drawing  him  into  printing  them,  and 
then  of  pointing  out  by  this  fact  how  little  read 
he  was,  and  how  unfit  to  occupy  the  swivel-chair 
into  which  he  had  so  lately  dropped.  Or  if  this 
were  not  the  case,  the  man  was  in  any  event  the 
enemy  of  all  honest  people,  who  look  unkindly  on 
those  who  try  to  obtain  money  by  false  pre 
tences. 

The  evasions  of  Edwin  Aram  were  many,  and 
his  methods  to  avoid  detection  not  without  skill. 
His  second  poem  was  written  on  a  sheet  of  note- 
paper  bearing  the  legend  "The  Shakespeare  De 
bating  Club.  Edwin  Aram,  President." 

This  was  intended  to  reassure  us  as  to  his  lit 
erary  taste  and  standard,  and  to  meet  any  sus 
picion  we  might  feel  had  there  been  no  address 
of  any  sort  accompanying  the  poem.  No  one  we 
knew  had  ever  heard  of  a  Shakespeare  Debating 
Club  in  New  York  city;  but  we  gave  him  the 
benefit  of  the  doubt  until  we  found  that  this  poem, 
like  the  first,  was  also  stolen.  His  third  poem 
bore  his  name  and  an  address,  which  on  instant 
inquiry  turned  out  to  be  that  of  a  vacant  lot  on 
Seventh  Avenue  near  Central  Park. 

Edwin  Aram  had  by  this  time  become  an  ex 
asperating  and  picturesque  individual,  and  the 

358 


The  Editor's  Story 

editorial  staff  was  divided  in  its  opinion  concern 
ing  him.  It  was  argued  on  one  hand  that  as  the 
man  had  never  sent  us  a  real  address,  his  object 
must  be  to  gain  a  literary  reputation  at  the  expense 
of  certain  poets,  and  not  to  make  money  at  ours. 
Others  answered  this  by  saying  that  fear  of  detec 
tion  alone  kept  Edwin  Aram  from  sending  his 
real  address,  but  that  as  soon  as  his  poem  was 
printed,  and  he  ascertained  by  that  fact  that  he 
had  not  been  discovered,  he  would  put  in  an  appli 
cation  for  payment,  and  let  us  know  quickly  enough 
to  what  portion  of  New  York  city  his  check  should 
be  forwarded. 

This,  however,  presupposed  the  fact  that  he 
was  writing  to  us  over  his  real  name,  which  we 
did  not  believe  he  would  dare  to  do.  No  one  in 
our  little  circle  of  journalists  and  literary  men  had 
ever  heard  of  such  a  man,  and  his  name  did  not 
appear  in  the  directory.  This  fact,  however,  was 
not  convincing  in  itself,  as  the  residents  of  New 
York  move  from  flat  to  hotel,  and  from  apart 
ments  to  boarding-houses  as  frequently  as  the  Arab 
changes  his  camping-ground.  We  tried  to  draw 
him  out  at  last  by  publishing  a  personal  para 
graph  which  stated  that  several  contributions  re 
ceived  from  Edwin  Aram  would  be  returned  to 
him  if  he  would  send  stamps  and  his  present  ad 
dress.  The  editor  did  not  add  that  he  would  re- 

259 


The  Editor's  Story 

turn  the  poems  in  person,  but  such  was  his  war 
like  intention. 

This  had  the  desired  result,  and  brought  us  a 
fourth  poem  and  a  fourth  address,  the  name  of  a 
tall  building  which  towers  above  Union  Square. 
We  seemed  to  be  getting  very  warm  now,  and  the 
editor  gathered  up  the  four  poems,  and  called  to 
his  aid  his  friend  Bronson,  the  ablest  reporter  on 

the  New  York ,  who  was  to  act  as  chronicler. 

They  took  with  them  letters  from  the  authors  of 
two  of  the  poems  and  from  the  editor  of  the 
magazine  in  which  the  first  one  had  originally 
appeared,  testifying  to  the  fact  that  Edwin  Aram 
had  made  an  exact  copy  of  the  original,  and  wish 
ing  the  brother  editor  good  luck  in  catching  the 
plagiarist. 

The  reporter  looked  these  over  with  a  critical 
eye.  "The  City  Editor  told  me  if  we  caught  him," 
he  said,  "that  I  could  let  it  run  for  all  it  was 
Worth.  I  can  use  these  names,  I  suppose,  and  I 
guess  they  have  pictures  of  the  poets  at  the  office. 
If  he  turns  out  to  be  anybody  in  particular,  it 
ought  to  be  worth  a  full  three  columns.  Sunday 
paper,  too." 

The  amateur  detectives  stood  in  the  lower  hall 
in  the  tall  building,  between  swinging  doors,  and 
jostled  by  hurrying  hundreds,  while  they  read  the 
pames  on  a  marble  directory. 

260 


The  Editor's  Story 

"There  he  is!"  said  the  editor,  excitedly. 
"  'American  Literary  Bureau.'  One  room  on  the 
fourteenth  floor.  That's  just  the  sort  of  a  place 
in  which  we  would  be  likely  to  find  him."  But 
the  reporter  was  gazing  open-eyed  at  a  name  in 
large  letters  on  an  office  door.  "Edward  K. 

Aram,"    it   read,    "Commissioner   of   ,    and 

City ." 

"What  do  you  think  of  that?"  he  gasped,  tri 
umphantly. 

"Nonsense,"  said  the  editor.  "He  wouldn't 
dare;  besides,  the  initials  are  different.  You're 
expecting  too  good  a  story." 

"That's  the  way  to  get  them,"  answered  the  re 
porter,  as  he  hurried  toward  the  office  of  the  City 

• .     "If  a  man  falls  dead,  believe  it's  a  suicide 

until  you  prove  it's  not;  if  you  find  a  suicide,  be 
lieve  it's  a  murder  until  you  are  convinced  to  the 
contrary.  Otherwise  you'll  get  beaten.  We  don't 
want  the  proprietor  of  a  little  literary  bureau,  we 
want  a  big  city  official,  and  I'll  believe  we  have 
one  until  he  proves  we  haven't." 

"Which  are  you  going  to  ask  for?"  whispered 
the  editor,  "Edward  K.  or  Edwin?" 

"Edwin,  I  should  say,"  answered  the  reporter. 
"He  has  probably  given  notice  that  mail  addressed 
that  way  should  go  to  him." 

"Is  Mr.  Edwin  Aram  in?"  he  asked. 
261 


The  Editor's  Story 

A  clerk  raised  his  head  and  looked  behind  him. 
"No,"  he  said;  "his  desk  is  closed.  I  guess  he's 
gone  home  for  the  day." 

The  reporter  nudged  the  editor  savagely  with 
his  elbow,  but  his  face  gave  no  sign.  "That's  a 
pity,"  he  said;  "we  have  an  appointment  with 
him.  He  still  lives  at  Sixty-first  Street  and  Madi 
son  Avenue,  I  believe,  does  he  not?" 

"No,"   said  the  clerk;   "that's  his   father,   the 

Commissioner,  Edward  K.    The  son  lives  at . 

Take  the  Sixth  Avenue  elevated  and  get  off  at 
1 1 6th  Street." 

"Thank  you,"  said  the  reporter.  He  turned  a 
triumphant  smile  upon  the  editor.  "We've  got 
him!"  he  said,  excitedly.  "And  the  son  of  old 
Edward  K.,  too !  Think  of  it !  Trying  to  steal 
a  few  dollars  by  cribbing  other  men's  poems;  that's 
the  best  story  there  has  been  in  the  papers  for  the 
past  three  months, — 'Edward  K.  Aram's  son  a 
thief!'  Look  at  the  names — politicians,  poets, 
editors,  all  mixed  up  in  it.  It's  good  for  three 
columns,  sure." 

"We've  got  to  think  of  his  people,  too,"  urged 
the  editor,  as  they  mounted  the  steps  of  the  ele 
vated  road. 

"He  didn't  think  of  them,"  said  the  re 
porter. 

The  house  in  which  Mr.  Aram  lived  was  an 
262 


The  Editor's  Story 

apartment-house,  and  the  brass  latchets  in  the  hall 
way  showed  that  it  contained  three  suites.  There 
were  visiting-cards  under  the  latchets  of  the  first 
and  third  stories,  and  under  that  of  the  second  a 
piece  of  note-paper  on  which  was  written  the  auto 
graph  of  Edwin  Aram.  The  editor  looked  at  it 
curiously.  He  had  never  believed  it  to  be  a  real 
name. 

"I  am  sorry  Edwin  Aram  did  not  turn  out  to  be 
a  woman,"  he  said,  regretfully;  "it  would  have 
been  so  much  more  interesting." 

"Now,"  instructed  Bronson,  impressively, 
"whether  he  is  in  or  not  we  have  him.  If  he's 
not  in.  we  wait  until  he  comes,  even  if  he  doesn't 
come  until  morning;  we  don't  leave  this  place  until 
we  have  seen  him." 

"Very  well,"  said  the  editor. 

The  maid  left  them  standing  at  the  top  of  the 
stairs  while  she  went  to  ask  if  Mr.  Aram  was  m, 
and  whether  he  would  see  two  gentlemen  who  did 
not  give  their  names  because  they  were  strangers 
to  him.  The  two  stood  silent  while  they  waited, 
eying  each  other  anxiously,  and  when  the  girl  re 
opened  the  door,  nodded  pleasantly,  and  said, 
"Yes,  Mr.  Aram  is  in,"  they  hurried  past  her  as 
though  they  feared  that  he  would  disappear  in 
mid-air,  or  float  away  through  the  windows  before 
they  could  reach  him. 

263 


The  Editor's  Story 

And  yet,  when  they  stood  at  last  face  to  face 
with  him,  he  bore  a  most  disappointing  air  of 
every-day  respectability.  He  was  a  tall,  thin 
young  man,  with  light  hair  and  mustache  and 
large  blue  eyes.  His  back  was  toward  the  win 
dow,  so  that  his  face  was  in  the  shadow,  and  he 
did  not  rise  as  they  entered.  The  room  in  which 
he  sat  was  a  prettily  furnished  one,  opening  into 
another  tiny  room,  which,  from  the  number  of 
books  in  it,  might  have  been  called  a  library.  The 
.rooms  had  a  well-to-do,  even  prosperous,  air,  but 
they  did  not  show  any  evidences  of  a  pronounced 
taste  on  the  part  of  their  owner,  either  in  the  way 
in  which  they  were  furnished  or  in  the  decora 
tions  of  the  walls.  A  little  girl  of  about  seven 
or  eight  years  of  age,  who  was  standing  between 
her  father's  knees,  with  a  hand  on  each,  and  with 
her  head  thrown  back  on  his  shoulder,  looked  up 
at  the  two  visitors  with  evident  interest,  and  smiled 
brightly. 

"Mr.  Aram?"  asked  the  editor,  tentatively. 

The  young  man  nodded,  and  the  two  visitors 
seated  themselves. 

"I  wish  to  talk  to  you  on  a  matter  of  private 
business,"  the  editor  began.  "Wouldn't  it  be  bet 
ter  to  send  the  little  girl  away  ?" 

The  child  shook  her  head  violently  at  this,  and 
crowded  up  closely  to  her  father;  but  he  held  her 

264 


The  Editor's  Story 

away  from  him  gently,  and  told  her  to  "run  and 
play  with  Annie." 

She  passed  the  two  visitors,  with  her  head  held 
scornfully  in  air,  and  left  the  men  together.  Mr. 
Aram  seemed  to  have  a  most  passive  and  incuri 
ous  disposition.  He  could  have  no  idea  as  to  who 
his  anonymous  visitors  might  be,  nor  did  he  show 
any  desire  to  know. 

"I  am  the  editor  of ,"  the  editor  began. 

"My  friend  also  writes  for  that  periodical.  I 
have  received  several  poems  from  you  lately,  Mr. 
Aram,  and  one  in  particular  which  we  all  liked 
very  much.  It  was  called  'Bohemia.'  But  it  is  so 
like  one  that  has  appeared  under  the  same  title 

in  the  Magazine  that  I  thought  I  would 

see  you  about  it,  and  ask  you  if  you  could  explain 
the  similarity.  You  see,"  he  went  on,  "it  would 
be  less  embarrassing  if  you  would  do  so  now  than 
later,  when  the  poem  has  been  published  and  when 
people  might  possibly  accuse  you  of  plagiarism." 
The  editor  smiled  encouragingly  and  waited. 

Mr.  Aram  crossed  one  leg  over  the  other  and 
folded  his  hands  in  his  lap.  He  exhibited  no 
interest,  and  looked  drowsily  at  the  editor.  When 
he  spoke  it  was  in  a  tone  of  unstudied  indiffer 
ence.  "I  never  wrote  a  poem  called  'Bohemia,'  ' 
he  said,  slowly;  "at  least,  if  I  did  I  don't  remem 
ber  it." 

265 


The  Editor's  Story 

The  editor  had  not  expected  a  flat  denial,  and  it 
irritated  him,  for  he  recognized  it  to  be  the  safest 
course  the  man  could  pursue,  if  he  kept  to  it.  "But 
you  don't  mean  to  say,"  he  protested,  smiling, 
"that  you  can  write  so  excellent  a  poem  as  'Bohe 
mia'  and  then  forget  having  done  so?" 

"I  might,"  said  Mr.  Aram,  unresentfully,  and 
with  little  interest.  "I  scribble  a  good  deal." 

"Perhaps,"  suggested  the  reporter,  politely,  with 
the  air  of  one  who  is  trying  to  cover  up  a  difficulty 
to  the  satisfaction  of  all,  "Mr.  Aram  would  re 
member  it  if  he  saw  it." 

The  editor  nodded  his  head  in  assent,  and  took 
the  first  page  of  the  two  on  which  the  poem  was 
written,  and  held  it  out  to  Mr.  Aram,  who  ac 
cepted  the  piece  of  foolscap  and  eyed  it  listlessly. 

"Yes,  I  wrote  that,"  he  said.  "I  copied  it  out 
of  a  book  called  'Gems  from  American  Poets.' ' 
There  was  a  lazy  pause.  "But  I  never  sent  it  to 
any  paper."  The  editor  and  the  reporter  eyed 
each  other  with  outward  calm  but  with  some  in 
ward  astonishment.  They  could  not  see  why  he 
had  not  adhered  to  his  original  denial  of  the  thing 
in  toto.  It  seemed  to  them  so  foolish  to  admit 
having  copied  the  poem  and  then  to  deny  having 
forwarded  it. 

"You  see,"  explained  Mr.  Aram,  still  with  no 
apparent  interest  in  the  matter,  "I  am  very  fond 

266 


The  Editor's  Story 

of  poetry;  I  like  to  recite  it,  and  I  often  write  it 
out  in  order  to  make  me  remember  it.  I  find  it 
impresses  the  words  on  my  mind.  Well,  that's 
what  has  happened.  I  have  copied  this  poem  out 
at  the  office  probably,  and  one  of  the  clerks  there 
has  found  it,  and  has  supposed  that  I  wrote  it,  and 
he  has  sent  it  to  your  paper  as  a  sort  of  a  joke  on 
me.  You  see,  father  being  so  well  known,  it  would 
rather  amuse  the  boys  if  I  came  out  as  a  poet. 
That's  how  it  was,  I  guess.  Somebody  must  have 
found  it  and  sent  it  to  you,  because  /  never 
sent  it." 

There  was  a  moment  of  thoughtful  considera 
tion.  "I  see,"  said  the  editor.  "I  used  to  do  that 
same  thing  myself  when  I  had  to  recite  pieces  at 
school.  I  found  that  writing  the  verses  down 
helped  me  to  remember  them.  I  remember  that 
I  once  copied  out  many  of  Shakespeare's  sonnets. 
But,  Mr.  Aram,  it  never  occurred  to  me,  after 
having  copied  out  one  of  Shakespeare's  sonnets, 
to  sign  my  own  name  at  the  bottom  of  it." 

Mr.  Aram's  eyes  dropped  to  the  page  of  manu 
script  in  his  hand  and  rested  there  for  some  little 
time.  Then  he  said,  without  raising  his  head,  "I 
haven't  signed  this." 

"No,"  replied  the  editor;  "but  you  signed  the 
second  page,  which  I  still  have  in  my  hand." 

The  editor  and  his  companion  expected  some 
267 


The  Editor's  Story 

expression  of  indignation  from  Mr.  Aram  at  this, 
some  question  of  their  right  to  come  into  his  house 
and  cross-examine  him  and  to  accuse  him,  tenta 
tively  at  least,  of  literary  fraud,  but  they  were  dis 
appointed.  Mr.  Aram's  manner  was  still  one  of 
absolute  impassibility.  Whether  this  manner  was 
habitual  to  him  they  could  not  know,  but  it  made 
them  doubt  their  own  judgment  in  having  so  quick 
ly  accused  him,  as  it  bore  the  look  of  undismayed 
innocence. 

It  was  the  reporter  who  was  the  first  to  break 
the  silence.  "Perhaps  someone  has  signed  Mr. 
Aram's  name — the  clerk  who  sent  it,  for  in 
stance." 

Young  Mr.  Aram  looked  up  at  him  curiously, 
and  held  out  his  hand  for  the  second  page.  "Yes," 
he  drawled,  "that's  how  it  happened.  That's  not 
my  signature.  I  never  signed  that." 

The  editor  was  growing  restless.  "I  have  sev 
eral  other  poems  here  from  you,"  he  said;  "one 
written  from  the  rooms  of  the  Shakespeare  De 
bating  Club,  of  which  I  see  you  are  president. 
Your  clerk  could  not  have  access  there,  could  he? 
He  did  not  write  that,  too  ?" 

"No,"  said  Mr.  Aram,  doubtfully,  "he  could 
not  have  written  that." 

The  editor  handed  him  the  poem.  "It's  yours, 
then?" 

"Yes,  that's  mine,"  Mr.  Aram  replied. 
268 


The  Editor's  Story 

"And  the  signature?" 

"Yes,  and  the  signature.  I  wrote  that  myself," 
Mr.  Aram  explained,  "and  sent  it  myself.  That 
other  one  ('Bohemia')  I  just  copied  out  to  remem 
ber,  but  this  is  original  with  me." 

"And  the  envelope  in  which  it  was  enclosed," 
asked  the  editor,  "did  you  address  that  also?" 

Mr.  Aram  examined  it  uninterestedly.  "Yes, 
that's  my  handwriting  too."  He  raised  his  head. 
His  face  wore  an  expression  of  patient  politeness. 

"Oh!"  exclaimed  the  editor,  suddenly,  in  some 
embarrassment.  "I  handed  you  the  wrong  enve 
lope.  I  beg  your  pardon.  That  envelope  is  the 
one  in  which  'Bohemia'  came." 

The  reporter  gave  a  hardly  perceptible  start; 
his  eyes  were  fixed  on  the  pattern  of  the  rug  at  his 
feet,  and  the  editor  continued  to  examine  the  pa 
pers  in  his  hand.  There  was  a  moment's  silence. 
From  outside  came  the  noise  of  children  play 
ing  in  the  street  and  the  rapid  rush  of  a  passing 
wagon. 

When  the  two  visitors  raised  their  heads  Mr. 
Aram  was  looking  at  them  strangely,  and  the  fin 
gers  folded  in  his  lap  were  twisting  in  and  out. 

"This  Shakespeare  Debating  Club,"  said  the 
editor,  "where  are  its  rooms,  Mr.  Aram?" 

"It  has  no  rooms,  now,"  answered  the  poet. 
"It  has  disbanded.  It  never  had  any  regular 
rooms;  we  just  met  about  and  read." 

269 


The  Editor's  Story 

"I  see — exactly,"  said  the  editor.  "And  the 
house  on  Seventh  Avenue  from  which  your  third 
poem  was  sent — did  you  reside  there  then,  or  have 
you  always  lived  here?" 

"No,  yes — I  used  to  live  there — I  lived  there 
when  I  wrote  that  poem." 

The  editor  looked  at  the  reporter  and  back  at 
Mr.  Aram.  "It  is  a  vacant  lot,  Mr.  Aram,"  he 
said,  gravely. 

There  was  a  long  pause.  The  poet  rocked  slow 
ly  up  and  down  in  his  rocking-chair,  and  looked 
at  his  hands,  which  he  rubbed  over  one  another 
as  though  they  were  cold.  Then  he  raised  his  head 
and  cleared  his  throat. 

"Well,  gentlemen,"  he  said,  "you  have  made 
out  your  case." 

"Yes,"  said  the  editor,  regretfully,  "we  have 
made  out  our  case."  He  could  not  help  but  wish 
that  the  fellow  had  stuck  to  his  original  denial.  It 
was  too  easy  a  victory. 

"I  don't  say,  mind  you,"  went  on  Mr.  Aram, 
"that  I  ever  took  anybody's  verses  and  sent  them 
to  a  paper  as  my  own,  but  I  ask  you,  as  one  gen 
tleman  talking  to  another,  and  inquiring  for  infor 
mation,  what  is  there  wrong  in  doing  it  ?  I  say,  if 
I  had  done  it,  which  I  don't  admit  I  ever  did, 
where's  the  harm?" 

"Where's  the  harm?"  cried  the  two  visitors  in 
chorus. 

270 


The  Editor's  Story 

"Obtaining  money  under  false  pretences,"  said 
the  editor,  "is  the  harm  you  do  the  publishers,  and 
robbing  another  man  of  the  work  of  his  brain  and 
what  credit  belongs  to  him  is  the  harm  you  do  him, 
and  telling  a  lie  is  the  least  harm  done.  Such  a 
contemptible  foolish  lie,  too,  that  you  might  have 
known  would  surely  find  you  out  in  spite  of  the 
trouble  you  took  to " 

"I  never  asked  you  for  any  money,"  interrupted 
Mr.  Aram,  quietly. 

"But  we  would  have  sent  it  to  you,  neverthe 
less,"  retorted  the  editor,  "if  we  had  not  dis 
covered  in  time  that  the  poems  were  stolen." 

"Where  would  you  have  sent  it?"  asked  Mr. 
Aram.  "I  never  gave  you  a  right  address,  did  I? 
I  ask  you,  did  I?" 

The  editor  paused  in  some  confusion.  "Well,  if 
you  did  not  want  the  money,  what  did  you 
want?"  he  exclaimed.  "I  must  say  I  should  like 
to  know." 

Mr.  Aram  rocked  himself  to  and  fro,  and  gazed 
at  his  two  inquisitors  with  troubled  eyes.  "I  didn't 
see  any  harm  in  it  then,"  he  repeated.  "I  don't 
see  any  harm  in  it  now.  I  didn't  ask  you  for  any 
money.  I  sort  of  thought,"  he  said,  confusedly, 
"that  I  should  like  to  see  my  name  in  print.  I 
wanted  my  friends  to  see  it.  I'd  have  liked  to  have 
shown  it  to — to — well,  I'd  like  my  wife  to  have 
seen  it.  She's  interested  in  literature  and  books 

271 


The  Editor's  Story 

and  magazines  and  things  like  that.  That  was  all 
I  wanted.  That's  why  I  did  it." 

The  reporter  looked  up  askance  at  the  editor, 
as  a  prompter  watches  the  actor  to  see  if  he  is 
ready  to  take  his  cue. 

"How  do  I  know  that?"  demanded  the  editor, 
sharply.  He  found  it  somewhat  difficult  to  be  se 
vere  with  this  poet,  for  the  man  admitted  so  much 
so  readily,  and  would  not  defend  himself.  Had 
he  only  blustered  and  grown  angry  and  ordered 
them  out,  instead  of  sitting  helplessly  there  rocking 
to  and  fro  and  picking  at  the  back  of  his  hands, 
it  would  have  made  it  so  much  easier.  "How  do 
we  know,"  repeated  the  editor,  "that  you  did  not 
intend  to  wait  until  the  poems  had  appeared,  and 
then  send  us  your  real  address  and  ask  for  the 
money,  saying  that  you  had  moved  since  you  had 
last  written  us?" 

"Oh,"  protested  Mr.  Aram,  "you  know  I  never 
thought  of  that." 

"I  don't  know  anything  of  the  sort,"  said  the 
editor.  "I  only  know  that  you  have  forged  and 
lied  and  tried  to  obtain  money  that  doesn't  belong 
to  you,  and  that  I  mean  to  make  an  example  of 
you  and  frighten  other  men  from  doing  the  same 
thing.  No  editor  has  read  every  poem  that  was 
ever  written,  and  there  is  no  protection  for  him 
from  such  fellows  as  you,  and  the  only  thing  he 

272 


The  Editor's  Story 

can  do  when  he  does  catch  one  of  you  is  to  make 
an  example  of  him.  That's  what  I  am  going  to 
do.  I  am  going  to  make  an  example  of  you.  I 
am  going  to  nail  you  up  as  people  nail  up  dead 
crows  to  frighten  off  the  live  ones.  It  is  my  inten 
tion  to  give  this  to  the  papers  to-night,  and  you 
know  what  they  will  do  with  it  in  the  morning." 

There  was  a  long  and  most  uncomfortable  pause, 
and  it  is  doubtful  if  the  editor  did  not  feel  it  as 
much  as  did  the  man  opposite  him.  The  editor 
turned  to  his  friend  for  a  glance  of  sympathy,  or 
of  disapproval  even,  but  that  gentleman  still  sat 
bending  forward  with  his  eyes  fixed  on  the  floor, 
while  he  tapped  with  the  top  of  his  cane  against 
his  teeth. 

"You  don't  mean,"  said  Mr.  Aram,  in  a  strange 
ly  different  voice  from  which  he  had  last  spoken, 
"that  you  would  do  that?" 

"Yes,  I  do,"  blustered  the  editor.  But  even  as 
he  spoke  he  was  conscious  of  a  sincere  regret  that 
he  had  not  come  alone.  He  could  intuitively  feel 
Bronson  mapping  out  the  story  in  his  mind  and 
memorizing  Aram's  every  word,  and  taking  men 
tal  notes  of  the  framed  certificates  of  high  mem 
bership  in  different  military  and  masonic  associa 
tions  which  hung  upon  the  walls.  It  had  not  been 
long  since  the  editor  was  himself  a  reporter,  and 
he  could  see  that  it  was  as  good  a  story  as  Bronson 

273 


The  Editor's  Story 

could  wish  it  to  be.     But  he  reiterated,  "Yes,  I 
mean  to  give  it  to  the  papers  to-night." 

"But  think,"  said  Aram — "think,  sir,  who  I  am. 
You  don't  want  to  ruin  me  for  the  rest  of  my  life 
just  for  a  matter  of  fifteen  dollars,  do  you?  Fif 
teen  dollars  that  no  one  has  lost,  either?  If  I'd  em 
bezzled  a  million  or  so,  or  if  I  had  robbed  the  city, 
well  and  good !  I'd  have  taken  big  risks  for  big 
money;  but  you  are  going  to  punish  me  just  as  hard 
because  I  tried  to  please  my  wife,  as  though  I  had 
robbed  a  mint.  No  one  has  really  been  hurt,"  he 
pleaded;  "the  men  who  wrote  the  poems — they've 
been  paid  for  them;  they've  got  all  the  credit  for 
them  they  can  get.  You've  not  lost  a  cent.  I've 
gained  nothing  by  it;  and  yet  you  gentlemen  are 
going  to  give  this  thing  to  the  papers,  and,  as  you 
say,  sir,  we  know  what  they  will  make  of  it.  What 
with  my  being  my  father's  son,  and  all  that,  my 
father  is  going  to  suffer.  My  family  is  going  to 
suffer.  It  will  ruin  me " 

The  editor  put  the  papers  back  into  his  pocket. 
If  Bronson  had  not  been  there  he  might  possibly 
instead  have  handed  them  over  to  Mr.  Aram,  and 
this  story  would  never  have  been  written.  But  he 
could  not  do  that  now.  Mr.  Aram's  affairs  had 
become  the  property  of  the  New  York  newspaper. 

He  turned  to  his  friend  doubtfully.  "What  do 
you  think,  Bronson?"  he  asked. 

274 


The  Editor's  Story 

At  this  sign  of  possible  leniency  Aram  ceased 
in  his  rocking  and  sat  erect,  with  eyes  wide  open 
and  fixed  on  Bronson's  face.  But  the  latter  trailed 
his  stick  over  the  rug  beneath  his  feet  and  shrugged 
his  shoulders. 

"Mr.  Aram,"  he  said,  "might  have  thought  of 
his  family  and  his  father  before  he  went  into  this 
business.  It  is  rather  late  now.  But,"  he  added, 
"I  don't  think  it  is  a  matter  we  can  decide  in  any 
event.  It  should  be  left  to  the  firm." 

"Yes,"  said  the  editor,  hurriedly,  glad  of  the 
excuse  to  temporize,  "we  must  leave  it  to  the 
house."  But  he  read  Bronson's  answer  to  mean 
that  he  did  not  intend  to  let  the  plagiarist  escape, 
and  he  knew  that  even  were  Bronson  willing  to 
do  so,  there  was  still  his  City  Editor  to  be  per 
suaded. 

The  two  men  rose  and  stood  uncomfortably, 
shifting  their  hats  in  their  hands — and  avoiding 
each  other's  eyes.  Mr.  Aram  stood  up  also,  and 
seeing  that  his  last  chance  had  come,  began  again 
to  plead  desperately. 

"What  good  would  fifteen  dollars  do  me?"  he 
said,  with  a  gesture  of  his  hands  round  the  room. 
"I  don't  have  to  look  for  money  as  hard  as  that. 
I  tell  you,"  he  reiterated,  "it  wasn't  the  money  I 
wanted.  I  didn't  mean  any  harm.  I  didn't  know 
it  was  wrong.  I  just  wanted  to  please  my  wife — 

275 


The  Editor's  Story 

that  was  all.  My  God,  man,  can't  you  see  that 
you  are  punishing  me  out  of  all  proportion?" 

The  visitors  walked  toward  the  door,  and  he  fol 
lowed  them,  talking  the  faster  as  they  drew  near 
to  it.  The  scene  had  become  an  exceedingly  pain 
ful  one,  and  they  were  anxious  to  bring  it  to  a 
close. 

The  editor  interrupted  him.  "We  will  let  you 
know,"  he  said,  "what  we  have  decided  to  do  by 
to-morrow  morning." 

"You  mean,"  retorted  the  man,  hopelessly  and 
reproachfully,  "that  I  will  read  it  in  the  Sunday 
papers." 

Before  the  editor  could  answer  they  heard  the 
dooi7  leading  into  the  apartment  open  and  close, 
and  someone  stepping  quickly  across  the  hall  to 
the  room  in  which  they  stood.  The  entrance  to 
the  room  was  hung  with  a  portiere,  and  as  the 
three  menpaused  in  silence  this  portiere  was  pushed 
back,  and  a  young  lady  stood  in  the  doorway,  hold 
ing  the  curtains  apart  with  her  two  hands.  She 
was  smiling,  and  the  smile  lighted  a  face  that  was 
inexpressibly  bright  and  honest  and  true.  Aram's 
face  had  been  lowered,  but  the  eyes  of  the  other 
two  men  were  staring  wide  open  toward  the  un 
expected  figure,  which  seemed  to  bring  a  taste  of 
fresh  pure  air  into  the  feverish  atmosphere  of  the 
place.  The  girl  stopped  uncertainly  when  she  saw 

276 


The  Editor's  Story 

the  two  strangers,  and  bowed  her  head  slightly  as 
the  mistress  of  a  house  might  welcome  anyone 
whom  she  found  in  her  drawing-room.  She  was 
entirely  above  and  apart  from  her  surroundings. 
It  was  not  only  that  she  was  exceedingly  pretty, 
but  that  everything  about  her,  from  her  attitude 
to  her  cloth  walking-dress,  was  significant  of  good 
taste  and  high  breeding. 

She  paused  uncertainly,  still  smiling,  and  with 
her  gloved  hands  holding  back  the  curtains  and 
looking  at  Aram  with  eyes  filled  with  a  kind  con 
fidence.  She  was  apparently  waiting  for  him  to 
present  his  friends. 

The  editor  made  a  sudden  but  irrevocable  re 
solve.  "If  she  is  only  a  chance  visitor,"  he  said  to 
himself,  "I  will  still  expose  him;  but  if  that  woman 
in  the  doorway  is  his  wife,  I  will  push  Bronson 
under  the  elevated  train,  and  the  secret  will  die 
with  me." 

What  Bronson's  thoughts  were  he  could  not 
know,  but  he  was  conscious  that  his  friend  had 
straightened  his  broad  shoulders  and  was  holding 
his  head  erect. 

Aram  raised  his  face,  but  he  did  not  look  at  the 
woman  in  the  door.  "In  a  minute,  dear,"  he  said; 
"I  am  busy  with  these  gentlemen." 

The  girl  gave  a  little  "oh"  of  apology,  smiled 
at  her  husband's  bent  head,  inclined  her  own  again 

277 


The  Editor's  Story 

slightly  to  the  other  men,  and  let  the  portiere  close 
behind  her.  It  had  been  as  dramatic  an  entrance 
and  exit  as  the  two  visitors  had  ever  seen  upon  the 
stage.  It  was  as  if  Aram  had  given  a  signal,  and 
the  only  person  who  could  help  him  had  come  in 
the  nick  of  time  to  plead  for  him.  Aram,  stupid 
as  he  appeared  to  be,  had  evidently  felt  the  effect 
his  wife's  appearance  had  made  upon  his  judges. 
He  still  kept  his  eyes  fixed  upon  the  floor,  but  he 
said,  and  this  time  with  more  confidence  in  his 
tone : — 

"It  is  not,  gentlemen,  as  though  I  were  an  old 
man.  I  have  so  very  long  to  live — so  long  to  try 
to  live  this  down.  Why,  I  am  as  young  as  you  are. 
How  would  you  like  to  have  a  thing  like  this  to 
carry  with  you  till  you  died?" 

The  editor  still  stood  staring  blankly  at  the  cur 
tains  through  which  Mr.  Aram's  good  angel,  for 
whom  he  had  lied  and  cheated  in  order  to  gain 
credit  in  her  eyes,  had  disappeared.  He  pushed 
them  aside  with  his  stick.  "We  will  let  you  know 
to-morrow  morning,"  he  repeated,  and  the  two 
men  passed  out  from  the  poet's  presence,  and  on 
into  the  hall.  They  descended  the  stairs  in  an  un 
comfortable  silence,  Bronson  leading  the  way,  and 
the  editor  endeavoring  to  read  his  verdict  by  the 
back  of  his  head  and  shoulders. 

At  the  foot  of  the  steps  he  pulled  his  friend  by 
278 


The  Editor's  Story 

the  sleeve.  "Bronson,"  he  coaxed,  "you  are  not 
going  to  use  it,  are  you?" 

Bronson  turned  on  him  savagely.  "For  Heav 
en's  sake!"  he  protested,  "what  do  you  think  I 
am;  did  you  see  her?" 

So  the  New  York lost  a  very  good  story, 

and  Bronson  a  large  sum  of  money  for  not  writing 
it,  and  Mr.  Aram  was  taught  a  lesson,  and  his 
young  wife's  confidence  in  him  remained  unshaken. 
The  editor  and  reporter  dined  together  that  night, 
and  over  their  cigars  decided  with  sudden  terror 
that  Mr.  Aram  might,  in  his  ignorance  of  their 
good  intentions  concerning  him,  blow  out  his 
brains,  and  for  nothing.  So  they  despatched  a 
messenger-boy  up  town  in  post-haste  with  a  note 
laying  that  "the  firm"  had  decided  to  let  the  mat 
ter  drop — although,  perhaps,  it  would  have  been 
better  to  have  given  him  one  sleepless  night  at 
least. 

That  was  three  years  ago,  and  since  then  Mr. 
Aram's  father  has  fallen  out  with  Tammany,  and 
has  been  retired  from  public  service.  Bronson  has 
been  sent  abroad  to  represent  the  United  States  at 
a  foreign  court,  and  has  asked  the  editor  to  write 
the  story  that  he  did  not  write,  but  with  such 
changes  in  the  names  of  people  and  places  that  no 
one  save  Mr.  Aram  may  know  who  Mr.  Aram 
really  was  and  is. 

279 


The  Editor's  Story 

This  the  editor  has  done,  reporting  what  hap 
pened  as  faithfully  as  he  could,  and  in  the  hope 
that  it  will  make  an  interesting  story  in  spite  of 
the  fact,  and  not  on  account  of  the  fact,  that  it  is 
a  true  one. 


280 


AN  ASSISTED  EMIGRANT 


An  Assisted  Emigrant 

GUIDO  stood  on  the  curb-stone  in  Fourteenth 
Street,  between  Fifth  Avenue  and  Sixth 
Avenue,  with  a  row  of  plaster  figures  drawn  up  on 
the  sidewalk  in  front  of  him.  It  was  snowing,  and 
they  looked  cold  in  consequence,  especially  the 
Night  and  Morning.  A  line  of  men  and  boys 
stretched  on  either  side  of  Guido  all  along  the  curb 
stone,  with  toys  and  dolls,  and  guns  that  shot  corks 
into  the  air  with  a  loud  report,  and  glittering  dress 
ings  for  the  Christmas-trees.  It  was  the  day  be 
fore  Christmas.  The  man  who  stood  next  in  line 
to  Guido  had  hideous  black  monkeys  that  danced 
from  the  end  of  a  rubber  string.  The  man  danced 
up  and  down  too,  very  much,  so  Guido  thought, 
as  the  monkeys  did,  and  stamped  his  feet  on  the 
icy  pavement,  and  shouted:  "Here  yer  are,  lady, 
for  five  cents.  Take  them  home  to  the  children." 
There  were  hundreds  and  hundreds  of  ladies  and 
little  girls  crowding  by  all  of  the  time;  some  of 
them  were  a  little  cross  and  a  little  tired,  as  if 
Christmas  shopping  had  told  on  their  nerves,  but 
the  greater  number  were  happy-looking  and  warm, 

From  "  Cinderella  and  Other  Stories."     Copyright,  1898,  by  Charles  Scribner's  Sons. 

283 


An  Assisted  Emigrant 

and  some  stopped  and  laughed  at  the  monkeys 
dancing  on  the  rubber  strings,  and  at  the  man  with 
the  frost  on  his  mustache,  who  jumped  too,  and 
cried,  "Only  five  cents,  lady — nice  Christmas  pres 
ents  for  the  children." 

Sometimes  the  ladies  bought  the  monkeys,  but 
no  one  looked  at  the  cold  plaster  figures  of  St. 
Joseph,  and  Diana,  and  Night  and  Morning,  nor 
at  the  heads  of  Mars  and  Minerva — not  even  at 
the  figure  of  the  Virgin,  with  her  two  hands  held 
out,  which  Guido  pressed  in  his  arms  against  his 
breast. 

Guido  had  been  in  New  York  city  just  one 
month.  He  was  very  young — so  young  that  he 
had  never  done  anything  at  home  but  sit  on  the 
wharves  and  watch  the  ships  come  in  and  out  of 
the  great  harbor  of  Genoa.  He  never  had  wished 
to  depart  with  these  ships  when  they  sailed  away, 
nor  wondered  greatly  as  to  where  they  went.  He 
was  content  with  the  wharves  and  with  the  narrow 
streets  near  by,  and  to  look  up  from  the  bulkheads 
at  the  sailors  working  in  the  rigging,  and  the  'long 
shoremen  rolling  the  casks  on  board,  or  lowering 
great  square  boxes  into  the  holds. 

He  would  have  liked,  could  he  have  had  his 
way,  to  live  so  for  the  rest  of  his  life;  but  they 
would  not  let  him  have  his  way,  and  coaxed  him 
on.  a  ship  to  go  to  the  New  World  to  meet  his 

284 


An  Assisted  Emigrant 

uncle.  He  was  not  a  real  uncle,  but  only  a  make- 
believe  one,  to  satisfy  those  who  objected  to  as 
sisted  immigrants,  and  who  wished  to  be  assured 
against  having  to  support  Guido,  and  others  like 
him.  But  they  were  not  half  so  anxious  to  keep 
Guido  at  home  as  he  himself  was  to  stay  there. 

The  new  uncle  met  him  at  Ellis  Island,  and  em 
braced  him  affectionately,  and  put  him  in  an  ex 
press  wagon,  and  drove  him  with  a  great  many 
more  of  his  countrymen  to  where  Mulberry  Street 
makes  a  bend  and  joins  Hester.  And  in  the  Bend 
Guido  found  thousands  of  his  fellows  sleeping 
twenty  in  a  room  and  overcrowded  into  the  street ; 
some  who  had  but  just  arrived,  and  others  who 
had  already  learned  to  swear  in  English,  and  had 
their  street-cleaning  badges  and  their  pedler's  li 
censes,  to  show  that  they  had  not  been  overlooked 
by  the  kindly  society  of  Tammany,  which  sees 
that  no  free  and  independent  voter  shall  go  un 
rewarded. 

New  York  affected  Guido  like  a  bad  dream.  It 
was  cold  and  muddy,  and  the  snow  when  it  fell 
turned  to  mud  so  quickly  that  Guido  believed  they 
were  one  and  the  same.  He  did  not  dare  to  think 
of  the  place  he  knew  as  home.  And  the  sight  of 
the  colored  advertisements  of  the  steamship  lines 
that  hung  in  the  windows  of  the  Italian  bankers 
hurt  him  as  the  sound  of  traffic  on  the  street  cuts 

285 


An  Assisted  Emigrant 

to  the  heart  of  a  prisoner  in  the  Tombs.  Many 
of  his  countrymen  bade  good-by  to  Mulberry  Street 
and  sailed  away;  but  they  had  grown  rich  through 
obeying  the  padrones,  and  working  night  and 
morning  sweeping  the  Avenue  uptown,  and  by 
living  on  the  refuse  from  the  scows  at  Canal  Street. 
Guide  never  hoped  to  grow  rich,  and  no  one 
stopped  to  buy  his  uncle's  wares. 

The  electric  lights  came  out,  and  still  the  crowd 
passed  and  thronged  before  him,  and  the  snow 
fell  and  left  no  mark  on  the  white  figures.  Guido 
was  growing  cold,  and  the  bustle  of  the  hurrying 
hundreds  which  had  entertained  him  earlier  in  the 
day  had  ceased  to  interest  him,  and  his  amusement 
had  given  place  to  the  fear  that  no  one  of  them 
would  ever  stop,  and  that  he  would  return  to  his 
uncle  empty-handed.  He  was  hungry  now,  as  well 
as  cold,  and  though  there  was  not  much  rich  food 
in  the  Bend  at  any  time,  to-day  he  had  had  nothing 
of  any  quality  to  eat  since  early  morning.  The 
man  with  the  monkeys  turned  his  head  from  time 
tfc  time,  and  spoke  to  him  in  a  language  that  he 
could  not  understand ;  although  he  saw  that  it  was 
something  amusing  and  well  meant  that  the  man 
said,  and  so  smiled  back  and  nodded.  He  felt  it 
to  be  quite  a  loss  when  the  man  moved  away. 

Guido  thought  very  slowly,  but  he  at  last  began 
to  feel  a  certain  contempt  for  the  stiff  statues  and 

286 


An  Assisted  Emigrant 

busts  which  no  one  wanted,  and  buttoned  the  figure 
of  the  one  of  the  woman  with  her  arms  held  out 
inside  of  his  jacket,  and  tucked  his  scarf  in  around 
it,  so  that  it  might  not  be  broken,  and  also  that 
it  might  not  bear  the  ignominy  with  the  others  of 
being  overlooked.  Guido  was  a  gentle,  slow-think 
ing  boy,  and  could  not  have  told  you  why  he  did 
this,  but  he  knew  that  this  figure  was  of  different 
clay  from  the  others.  He  had  seen  it  placed  high 
in  the  cathedrals  at  home,  and  he  had  been  told 
that  if  you  ask  certain  things  of  it  it  will  listen 
to  you. 

The  women  and  children  began  to  disappear 
from  the  crowd,  and  the  necessity  of  selling  some 
of  his  wares  impressed  itself  more  urgently  upon 
him  as  the  night  grew  darker  and  possible  custom 
ers  fewer.  He  decided  that  he  had  taken  up  a 
bad  position,  and  that  instead  of  waiting  for  cus 
tomers  to  come  to  him,  he  ought  to  go  seek  for 
them.  With  this  purpose  in  his  mind  he  gathered 
the  figures  together  upon  his  tray,  and,  resting  it 
upon  his  shoulder,  moved  further  along  the  street, 
to  Broadway,  where  the  crowd  was  greater  and  the 
shops  more  brilliantly  lighted.  He  had  good  cause 
to  be  watcliful,  for  the  sidewalks  were  slippery 
with  ice,  and  the  people  rushed  and  hurried  and 
brushed  past  him  without  noticing  the  burden  he 
carried  on  one  shoulder.  He  wished  now  that  he 

287 


An  Assisted  Emigrant 

knew  some  words  of  this  new  language,  that  he 
might  call  his  wares  and  challenge  the  notice  of 
the  passers-by,  as  did  the  other  men  who  shouted 
so  continually  and  vehemently  at  the  hurrying 
crowds.  He  did  not  know  what  might  happen  if 
he  failed  to  sell  one  of  his  statues;  it  was  a  possi 
bility  so  awful  that  he  did  not  dare  conceive  of  its 
punishment.  But  he  could  do  nothing,  and  so 
stood  silent,  dumbly  presenting  his  tray  to  the 
people  near  him. 

His  wanderings  brought  him  to  the  corner  of 
a  street,  and  he  started  to  cross  it,  in  the  hope  of 
better  fortune  in  untried  territory.  There  was  no 
need  of  his  hurrying  to  do  this,  although  a  car 
was  coming  toward  him,  so  he  stepped  carefully 
but  surely.  But  as  he  reached  the  middle  of  the 
track  a  man  came  toward  him  from  the  opposite 
pavement;  they  met  and  hesitated,  and  then  both 
jumped  to  the  same  side,  and  the  man's  shoulder 
struck  the  tray  and  threw  the  white  figures  flying 
to  the  track,  where  the  horses  tramped  over  them 
on  their  way.  Guido  fell  backward,  frightened 
and  shaken,  and  the  car  stopped,  and  the  driver 
and  the  conductor  leaned  out  anxiously  from  each 
end. 

There  seemed  to  be  hundreds  of  people  all 
around  Guido,  and  some  of  them  picked  him  up 
and  asked  him  questions  in  a  very  loud  voice,  as 

288 


An  Assisted  Emigrant 

though  that  would  make  the  language  they  spoke 
more  intelligible.  Two  men  took  him  by  each 
arm  and  talked  with  him  in  earnest  tones,  and 
punctuated  their  questions  by  shaking  him  gently. 
He  could  not  answer  them,  but  only  sobbed,  and 
beat  his  hands  softly  together,  and  looked  about 
him  for  a  chance  to  escape.  The  conductor  of  the 
car  jerked  the  strap  violently,  .and  the  car  went  on 
its  way.  Guido  watched  the  conductor,  as  he  stood 
with  his  hands  in  his  pockets  looking  back  at  him. 
Guido  had  a  confused  idea  that  the  people  on  the 
car  might  pay  him  for  the  plaster  figures  which 
had  been  scattered  in  the  slush  and  snow,  so  that 
the  heads  and  arms  and  legs  lay  on  every  side  or 
were  ground  into  heaps  of  white  powder.  But 
when  the  car  disappeared  into  the  night  he  gave  up 
this  hope,  and  pulling  himself  free  from  his  cap 
tor,  slipped  through  the  crowd  and  ran  off  into  a 
side  street.  A  man  who  had  seen  the  accident  had 
been  trying  to  take  up  a  collection  in  the  crowd, 
which  had  grown  less  sympathetic  and  less  numer 
ous  in  consequence,  and  had  gathered  more  than 
the  plaster  casts  were  worth;  but  Guido  did  not 
know  this,  and  when  they  came  to  look  for  him 
he  was  gone,  and  the  bareheaded  gentleman,  with 
his  hat  full  of  coppers  and  dimes,  was  left  in  much 
embarrassment. 

Guido  walked  to  Washington  Square,  and  sat 


An  Assisted  Emigrant 

down  on  a  bench  to  rest,  and  then  curled  over 
quickly,  and,  stretching  himself  out  at  full  length, 
wept  bitterly.  When  anyone  passed  he  held  his 
breath  and  pretended  to  be  asleep.  He  did  not 
•know  what  he  was  to  do  or  where  he  was  to  go. 
Such  a  calamity  as  this  had  never  entered  into  his 
calculations  of  the  evils  which  might  overtake  him, 
and  it  overwhelmed  him  utterly.  A  policeman 
touched  him  with  his  night-stick,  and  spoke  to  him 
kindly  enough,  but  the  boy  only  backed  away 
from  the  man  until  he  was  out  of  his  reach,  and 
then  ran  on  again,  slipping  and  stumbling  on 
the  ice  and  snow.  He  ran  to  Christopher 
Street,  through  Greenwich  Village,  and  on  to 
the  wharves. 

It  was  quite  late,  and  he  had  recovered  front 
his  hunger,  and  only  felt  a  sick  tired  ache  at  his 
heart.  His  feet  were  heavy  and  numb,  and  he  was 
very  sleepy.  People  passed  him  continually,  and 
doors  opened  into  churches  and  into  noisy,  glaring 
saloons  and  crowded  shops,  but  it  did  not  seem  pos 
sible  to  him  that  there  could  be  any  relief  from 
any  source  for  the  sorrow  that  had  befallen  him. 
It  seemed  too  awful,  and  as  impossible  to  mend 
as  it  would  be  to  bring  the  crushed  plaster  into 
shape  again.  He  considered  dully  that  his  uncle 
would  miss  him  and  wait  for  him,  and  that  his 
anger  would  increase  with  every  moment  of  his 

290 


An  Assisted  Emigrant 

delay.  He  felt  that  he  could  never  return  to  his 
uncle  again. 

Then  he  came  to  another  park,  opening  into  a 
square,  with  lighted  saloons  on  one  side,  and  on  the 
other  great  sheds,  with  ships  lying  beside  them, 
and  the  electric  lights  showing  their  spars  and 
masts  against  the  sky.  It  had  ceased  snowing,  but 
the  air  from  the  river  was  pierOPg  and  cold,  and 
swept  through  the  wires  overhead,  with  a  ceaseless 
moaning.  The  numbness  had  crept  from  his  feet 
up  over  the  whole  extent  of  his  little  body,  and 
he  dropped  upon  a  flight  of  steps  back  of  a  sailors' 
boarding-house,  and  shoved  his  hands  inside  of  his 
jacket  for  possible  warmth.  His  fingers  touched 
the  figure  he  had  hidden  there  and  closed  upon  it 
lightly,  and  then  his  head  dropped  back  against 
the  wall,  and  he  fell  into  a  heavy  sleep.  The  night 
passed  on  and  grew  colder,  and  the  wind  came 
across  the  ice-blocked  river  with  shriller,  sharper 
blasts,  but  Guido  did  not  hear  it. 

"Chuckey"  Martin,  who  blacked  boots  in  front 
of  the  corner  saloon  in  summer  and  swept  out  the 
barroom  in  winter,  came  out  through  the  family 
entrance  and  dumped  a  pan  of  hot  ashes  into  the 
snow-bank,  and  then  turned  into  the  house  with  a 
shiver.  He  saw  a  mass  of  something  lying  curled 
up  on  the  steps  of  the  next  house,  and  remembered 
it  after  he  had  closed  the  door  of  die  family  en- 

291 


An  Assisted  Emigrant 

trance  behind  him  and  shoved  the  pan  under  the 
stove.  He  decided  at  last  that  it  might  be  one  of 
the  saloon's  customers,  or  a  stray  sailor  with  loose 
change  in  his  pockets,  which  he  would  not  miss 
when  he  awoke.  So  he  went  out  again,  and  pick 
ing  Guido  up,  brought  him  In  in  his  arms  and  laid 
him  out  on  the  floor. 

There  were  <wcr  thirty  men  in  the  place;  they 
had  been  celebrating  the  coming  of  Christmas ;  and 
three  of  them  pushed  each  other  out  of  the  way  in 
their  eagerness  to  pour  very  bad  brandy  between 
Guide's  teeth.  "Chuckey"  Martin  felt  a  sense  of 
proprietorship  in  Guido,  by  the  right  of  discovery, 
and  resented  this,  pushing  them  away,  and  pro 
testing  that  the  thing  to  do  was  to  rub  his  feet 
with  snow. 

A  fat,  oily  chief  engineer  of  an  Italian  tramp 
steamer  dropped  on  his  knees  beside  Guido  and 
beat  the  boy's  hands,  and  with  unsteady  fingers 
tore  open  his  scarf  and  jacket,  and  as  he  did  this 
the  figure  of  the  plaster  Virgin  with  her  hands 
stretched  out  looked  up  at  him  from  its  bed  on 
Guido's  chest. 

Some  of  the  sailors  drew  their  hands  quickly 
across  their  breasts,  and  others  swore  in  some 
alarm,  and  the  barkeeper  drank  the  glass  of  whis 
key  he  had  brought  for  Guido  at  a  gulp,  and  then 
readjusted  his  apron  to  show  that  nothing  had  dis- 

292 


An  Assisted  Emigrant 

turbed  his  equanimity.  Guido  sat  up,  with  his 
head  against  the  chief  engineer's  knees,  and  opened 
his  eyes,  and  his  ears  were  greeted  with  words  in 
his  own  tongue.  They  gave  him  hot  coffee  and 
hot  soup  and  more  brandy,  and  he  told  his  story 
in  a  burst  of  words  that  flowed  like  a  torrent  of 
tears — how  he  had  been  stolen  from  his  home  at 
Genoa,  where  he  used  to  watch  the  boats  from  the 
stone  pier  in  front  of  the  custom-house,  at  which 
the  sailors  nodded,  and  how  the  padrone,  who  was 
not  his  uncle,  finding  he  could  not  black  boots  nor 
sell  papers,  had  given  him  these  plaster  casts  to 
sell,  and  how  he  had  whipped  him  when  people 
would  not  buy  them,  and  how  at  last  he  had  tripped 
and  broken  them  all  except  this  one  hidden  in  his 
breast,  and  how  he  had  gone  to  sleep,  and  he  asked 
now  why  had  they  wakened  him,  for  he  had  no 
place  to  go. 

Guido  remembered  telling  them  this,  and  fol 
lowing  them  by  their  gestures  as  they  retold  it  to 
the  others  in  a  strange  language,  and  then  the 
lights  began  to  spin,  and  the  faces  grew  distant, 
and  he  reached  out  his  hand  for  the  fat  chief  en 
gineer,  and  felt  his  arms  tightening  around  him. 

A  cold  wind  woke  Guido,  and  the  sound  of 
something  throbbing  and  beating  like  a  great  clock. 
He  was  very  warm  and  tired  and  lazy,  and  when 
he  raised  his  head  he  touched  the  ceiling  close 

293 


An  Assisted  Emigrant 

above  him,  and  when  he  opened  his  eyes  he  found 
himself  in  a  little  room  with  a  square  table  covered 
with  oilcloth  in  the  centre,  and  rows  of  beds  like 
shelves  around  the  walls.  The  room  rose  and  fell 
as  the  streets  did  when  he  had  had  nothing  to  eat, 
and  he  scrambled  out  of  the  warm  blankets  and 
crawled  fearfully  up  a  flight  of  narrow  stairs. 
There  was  water  on  either  side  of  him,  beyond  and 
behind  him — water  blue  and  white  and  dancing  in 
the  sun,  with  great  blocks  of  dirty  ice  tossing  on 
its  surface. 

And  behind  him  lay  the  odious  city  of  New 
York,  with  its  great  bridge  and  high  buildings,  and 
before  him  the  open  sea.  The  chief  engineer 
crawled  up  from  the  engine-room  and  came  toward 
him,  rubbing  the  perspiration  from  his  face  with 
a  dirty  towel. 

"Good-morning,"  he  called  out.  "You  are  feel 
ing  pretty  well?" 

"Yes." 

"It  is  Christmas  day.  Do  you  know  where  you 
are  going?  You  are  going  to  Italy,  to  Genoa.  It 
is  over  there,"  he  said,  pointing  with  his  finger. 
"Go  back  to  your  bed  and  keep  warm." 

He  picked  Guido  up  in  his  arms,  and  ran  with 
him  down  the  companion-way,  and  tossed  him  back 
into  his  berth.  Then  he  pointed  to  the  shelf  at 
one  end  of  the  little  room,  above  the  sheet-iron 

294 


An  Assisted  Emigrant 

stove.  The  plaster  figure  that  Guido  had  wrapped 
in  his  breast  had  been  put  there  and  lashed  to  its 
place. 

"That  will  bring  us  good  luck  and  a  quick  voy 
age,"  said  the  chief  engineer. 

Guido  lay  quite  still  until  the  fat  engineer  had 
climbed  up  the  companion-way  again  and  permitted 
the  sunlight  to  once  more  enter  the  cabin.  Then 
he  crawled  out  of  his  berth  and  dropped  on  his 
knees,  and  raised  up  his  hands  to  the  plaster  figure 
which  no  one  would  buy. 


295 


